tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45377049981030334132023-06-20T21:32:53.784-07:00Real Life is Greater than FictionFinding pen-worthy moments in regular life.Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-12331308745445113872016-06-12T14:32:00.002-07:002016-06-12T14:32:54.603-07:00My Life in the Aughts<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I recently came back from a trip to Kauai with my fiance. Being the times that they are, I used my phone to take pictures and posted them a couple at a time on Instragram and Facebook. To go back to sea turtles on the beach, a Hindu temple in the rainforest, horseback riding where a scene from Jurassic Park was filmed, and getting engaged on a beach, I just have to log in. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-b1e62287-4681-f66a-e8fe-722627aa0f91" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Going to that magical isle brought back memories to previous trips to Hawaii, and I wanted to look back at the pictures and remember. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The pictures from my trip to Oahu in 2002 to visit my cousin Jewels were easy enough to find. They are in a relic from a disappearing time--the scrapbook. I used an actual camera and printed out the pictures at Walgreen’s. Visual memories include seeing crazed goldfish at the Dole pineapple plantation, horse riding where more parts of Jurassic Park were filmed, ringing a giant gong at a Buddhist temple set against a paradise of green mountains, and snorkeling with parrot fish eating coral and pooping pristine white sand at Hanuma Bay. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But where were my pictures from my trip to the Big Island in 2006? That Hawaiin trip was definitely the most random. An extraordinarily generous parent from that year’s preschool class worked for American Airlines, and wanted to show her thanks by giving me and my assistant a free round trip flight anywhere in the US, including Hawaii. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I chose to go that following Thanksgiving. I was single at the time and no friends could join me, so my mother suggested I go to Hawaii, or the Big Island, where her friend lived. And the pictures? Facebook didn’t exist yet, but the world was the digital revolution was well on its way. There was no photo album or scrapbook of them. And then I remembered--Smugmug.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Smugmug was a picture storing and sharing webpage, kind of like Flickr, though it claimed to be better because it didn’t show any ads. It cost $25 a year. I figured it was worth it because you can order prints of varying sizes.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Having succumbed to just using Facebook in recent years, I had forgotten I even had a Smugmug account. Then six months ago they started bugging me saying I needed to update my credit card info. I almost shut down the account. But then I remembered the Big Island, and decided to see what else was on there. It turned out to be a record of my Life in the Aughts.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The album titles make me sound like an intrepid traveler, extensive partier, and one whose friends loved themes. And I suppose all those things are true. Trips that for a long time seemed recent now prove to be well in the past, such as “Barcelona/Morocco/London” which happened exactly 10 years ago. “Northwest Road Trip” I think happened in 2008. “Toronto to See Steph” was also 2006, shortly after a friend of mine committed suicide. Do I look a tad less innocent after that? Hard to say. I know I felt that way.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My friends used to take part in Bay to Breakers every year, and of course they had to be a theme. The first year I participated must have been 2002, with the theme “Pajamas and Babies.” Our keg was converted into a bottle. The few pictures I took before I had partaken of the baby bottle too many times actually made it into a photo album. Following years, including “Where’s Waldo?,” “Things You Find at an Airport,” “Trashy Prom,” and a unknown theme one in which I’m wearing a lion costume are all on Smugmug. We walked for miles while drinking and dancing, every year for many years. Thankfully, the pictures only show the beginnings of the race.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are pictures of weddings in wine country and in Lake Tahoe. They always start out well-composed, of beautiful people in gorgeous dresses, and then descend gradually into blurry depictions of friends attempting to dance around a stripper pole. There is a whole album dedicated to a combined bachelorette party in Las Vegas, with some gems of me dancing with an army guy. Oh yeah, that happened….</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some albums are a combo of random events which then make the album an incredibly random smattering of bizarre drunken exhibitionism. “Thanksgiving/Santarchy/White Elephant Party” has to be the pinnacle. The album starts out with various friends dressed up as elementary school style Native Americans using only paper bags. Then everyone is on the roof of a Mission apartment, a post-meal tradition that could have ended in tragedy, but never did. Fast forward a month to Santarchy, a giant street party in which everyone dresses as Santa and of course, drinks to excess. There is a picture of me in a Santa hat with a Hanukkah Harry. More drunk Native Americans. I captured a fight over a Hello Kitty waffle iron during a White Elephant Christmas party. The two women involved in the dispute were stomping the floor so hard I was worried it would cave in. The person who didn’t get the waffle iron got a Snoopy Sno-Cone machine, so they remained friends. I think.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The albums do show the effects of time, not always favorably. People are noticeably younger looking and thinner in the pictures, myself included. Some make the reality of now hard to reconcile with. The album “An August of Friends and Family, 2009” shows my mom hiking in the Mono Basin and riding horses through Yosemite. She is 70 now, in good health, but needs a double knee replacement. How has she aged so much? It was only 7 years ago.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Animal Friends” is another wistful one. I haven’t been able to own many pets in San Francisco, so this album shows my friends’ animals and ones I house sat for. Most of them are dead now, though some still survive, including my 15 year old leopard gecko Cleo. Tippy, Waverly, and Bean live on in in the pictures.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can see how my world view has changed by looking through these albums. One album is simply titled “Friends.” It looks like most of the pictures were taken at a backyard barbeque, I think in 2010. What is amazing about this album is how many of those people are not my friends at all. Not that I had any fights or falling outs with them--there have been a couple of those, but rather that the people in those pictures were never my close friends to begin with. They are acquaintances, housemates, co-workers, and people I used to see around more often. They are all good people and I hope their lives are good and fulfilling, and I don’t talk to them anymore. That’s fine. People have families now. I live with my fiance and not with housemates. I drastically cut back on hanging out with co-workers due to gossiping and negativity. The friends that are indeed the real ones were that ten years ago, and I am confident that some of them still will be in ten years. That album would be vastly shorter and different were I to do it now, and I am not sad about it.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What were the aughts for Elissa? At first glance, it seems a second adolescence. Rather, it was my first, since my teenage and college years were quite tame. Drunken footraces and themed parties and music festivals and trips with fellow single friends was what needed to happen at that time. Some of these events will not happen again, some still do, in a much tamed- down version. I am happy they happened; I am not sad they are over. I am at peace with who I have become. I am pleased with the memories, in my mind, in albums, and online. I hope my friends and family are as well. Although peoples' lives are vastly different than they were in the early aughts, I would say they look as happy in the pictures then as they do in real life now.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh yes, the pictures of the Big Island trip. They show gigantic insects, lava flows, ancient Hawaiian temples, and another horseback ride through the jungle and along cliffs. Jurassic Park, however, was not filmed there. No place is perfect.</span></div>
<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-63488017267345653812012-05-13T17:01:00.001-07:002012-05-13T17:05:19.254-07:00<br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">City's Eclipse</span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Pre-dawn in Dolores Park. An inked city. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Me--alone, cold, self-conscious. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I come to watch the moon devoured by the murk,</span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">and hope there is no one watching me.</span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I shouldn't feel like this, and yet I do. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Hiding inside myself, I watch for the change.</span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Several vapored breaths later, there is no moon. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Instead, an amber ball of smoke hangs.</span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Eerie and beautiful, the moon regards me in this vulnerable state and </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">says to me: See. I am the one who is odd. No one stares at you.</span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I smile in gratitude, and go to return to inside, warmth, normality. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">But I see that the city changes. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And it implores me to stay, to </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">witness its freedom from night's hold. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I acquiesce, and climb higher in the park to freeze myself to a bench. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Nautical dawn introduces itself, bows with languid grace. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Blue light is born from behind lamp posts and attic windows. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Awakened life arrives on two legs, four legs, four wheels. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The city breathes and stretches after its forced sedation. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The sky presents a wayward rainbow--deep blue, light blue flecked with pink, </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">a moment of lifeless pale, and then ever warming gold. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And then the solar photons rain down.</span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I dislodge myself from the bench, and head into my day. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Sounds bounce off pavement and grass--</span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">plastic scraped on pavement, voices, horns. Brash, with ever increasing hurry.</span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The day, so young, already begins to lose its innocence. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Post-twilight. Dolores Park again, on my way home. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Relaxed, confident, comfortable.</span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I pause to see this park in its evening wear. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Now--fire dancers, barbeques, children out too late. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The park and city unashamedly present themselves as they are.</span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">An alabaster moon arises, bold and naked, triumphant in its return. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">There is a different feel in this evening between us--the moon, the city, the park, myself. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The dawn showed us dark, meek, altered. Trying to be quiet and unnoticed. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">We saw each other through that, acknowledged the strange beauty within and without. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Appreciated the rare deviation. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">And now we regroup in the other darkness, back into our standard beings.</span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Recognize each other with congratulatory wonder. A connection is forged. </span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Walking home, we exchange smiles and nods, altered by this understanding.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
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<br />Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-57855130330757875022011-08-01T12:00:00.000-07:002011-08-01T12:10:55.589-07:00Once more to the mountains<span class="Apple-style-span" >I wrote this poem years ago, I think in 2006. It was after one of the yearly trips I take to Yosemite Park and the Eastern Sierras. Having just come back from one of these amazing trips, I decided to post this poem about one of my experiences. This poem is dedicated to that incredible area of the state and to the wonderful people I spent time with there.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Tuolome River</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >We walk along in the sweat sucking heat;</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >thin air pushes against our tired hearts.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >A river seeks us</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >and we hear it soon-- waiting.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Then it appears--</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >a sinuous, porcine animal</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >continually diving downwards.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >By a glassy pool</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >we remove our clothes</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >and I suddenly I am afraid.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Why? To experience fierce cool is why we came.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Ankles in, I feel ice dragons bite at my bones.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >How can water hurt so much?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I retreat, and sensation leaks back down my legs.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >A small, deep copper pool offers full immersion.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I jump in, and the scream escaping my throat is </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >sucked back, and all my organs</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >quail inwards for core warmth.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >In two seconds I experience a year of broken crystal in every pore; it is</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >terrible and amazing to be consumed by this beautiful creature.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I flee the artic maw, and grab my forehead </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >to ease the external ice cream headache.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >My limbs find warm granite,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >and they kindly lower my torso.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Sun thaws my marrow </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >and I am simultaneously</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >tranquilized</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >energized.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Back in my body, </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I watch the liquid shards</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >drip from my hair and realize</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I am finally</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >violently</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Alive.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-49534844668870013412011-01-02T20:17:00.000-08:002011-01-02T20:29:09.420-08:00How I Never Learned to Swim<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span id="internal-source-marker_0.2206004923209548" style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">It is every parent's duty to teach their child how to swim. Why? Because their child’s life may depend upon it. --Babylonian Talmud</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">“Ppppplease! Please Elissa!” the five year old boy stammered. “Call my mom and ask her if I can just watch swimming today!” </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Dylan was in my preschool class last year. On this particular Tuesday he stood on our Morning Meeting rug in a t-shirt and underwear, body trembling and teeth chattering. His camoflage swimming trunks and goggles laid at his feet.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I sighed, and mustered my well-practiced patient yet firm Teacher Voice. “Dylan, your mom has told me that you are going to swimming today. And she also told me you are doing well and have fun once you get in the water! I know you can do this. Here, I’ll help you change.” I handed him his goggles and swimsuit. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">“Noooo!” Dylan erupted into tears, dropped the items and pushed them away with his foot. “I won’t go in the water. I’ll just watch.” Dylan eventually succumbed to changing for swimming, but continued to shake and whimper until he is brought down to the pool. This episode happened every Tuesday, the day he had swimming lessons after school. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">What is it about swimming that brings about such extreme reactions in young people? Our preschool offers all sorts of enrichment activities for the youngsters, such as clay class, karate, dance, and sports like basketball as well as swimming. Even if a child would rather go home instead of to his or her after school class, there is simply no parallel for the drama that ensues when a child doesn’t want to go swimming.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Maybe the secret of this distress lies in the "duty" of swimming lessons. One is unlikely to find themselves in a life or death scenario involving T-ball or arts and crafts. But being in water is another story. The children who look forward to swimming lessons may think they are there by choice. To them it is simply a fun time in the pool. Only the ones who are terrified seem to know they have to go. I can certainly empathize with the reluctant ones, as I was one of them. While I certainly agree with the Talmud's statement about learning to swim, as did my parents--I never really learned how.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">My brother and sister and I were born as fortunate naturally athletic individuals, which made the swimming debacle all the more mysterious. We poured our whole selves and our selfless parent’s paychecks into our chosen fields of interest, which all involved high physical activity: horse back riding, ice skating, and gymnastics. Since we lived in Plymouth, Massachusetts and spent summers on Cape Cod, my mother dutifully insisted on swimming lessons in addition to our already busy schedules. My sister Emilie, while she does not pursue swimming as a sport, is now a skilled diver and a certified scuba diver. She somehow did not receive the curse of swim lesson failure like my brother Danny and I did.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">The first attempt happened while my mother was still pregnant with Emilie, and I was only 5. She took Danny and me to Morton Pond, one of the 360 ponds that Plymouth boasts. I remember nothing of this, probably because we only went once and came down with hand, foot, and mouth disease. I picture children in soggy diapers wading in blackish water, steeping in 85 degree heat and 90% humidity. So much for Morton Pond.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">The second try was at Plymouth Beach, a couple years later. Plymouth Beach was and still is the main beach in Plymouth. It is nice enough, with calm water and not too much seaweed. The water isn’t the Caribbean, but it wasn’t freezing. Except for this early summer day. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I stood looking at the brownish blue water, digging my feet in the sand. “Why, mom? Why do I have to take swimming lessons?” I whined. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">“So you don’t drown someday! Go on, you can do it.” I was doubtful that I could. It was windy out, and the water somehow even looked colder than usual. The instructor was barking orders at a group of kids in the water. He didn’t look particularly nice. He was also quite fat, and therefore insulated against frigid water. I looked over at Danny. His skinny body was already shivering. Quaking, actually.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">“We have lots of towels to warm you up when you get out!” said my dad cheerfully, always the positive one. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Finally Danny and I stepped forward towards the water. We started edging our way in. But instead of the usual playful friend the ocean was to me, the Atlantic had turned into a freezing, brackish, slime-weed infested nightmare. “It’s too coooolllld!” Danny and I yelled back to mom and dad, tears not far below the surface. Dad smiled encouragingly. Then Fat Guy yelled, “You two! Come on over and join the group. Let’s see your doggy paddle!” </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">We tried to oblige, we really did. I gasped while paddling, and swallowed a juice box of sea water. Seaweed, which normally didn’t bother me, kept winding around my legs and interfering with my weak attempts at a straight leg kick. When Fat Guy told us to put our heads under water, I balked. Why the heck should I do that? Not wanting to look like a baby in front of the other kids, I did, and the salt water painfully shot up to my sinuses. I couldn’t hold it in anymore and started bawling. Crying is catching, and when my brother saw me he started his own deluge of tears. My parents couldn’t take it either and finally got us out. Maybe we weren’t exaggerating the cold, because Danny had turned purple. We spent the rest of our lesson wrapped in towels, recovering from hypothermic trauma. Danny and I never finished the lesson and never went back to Plymouth Beach for a swimming lesson. The rest of the summer was spent in the sea weed free safety of our two feet deep pool. Our amazing (to some insane) parents poured bucketfuls of hot water into it every time we went swimming. In terms of swimming lessons, we were already 0 for 2.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">It would be a couple years until we made the attempt again. By this time Danny and I were 8 and 10 years old, too old to get away without knowing the basics of swimming. Many of my classmates could be heard bragging about being on the swim team, and here I could barely doggy paddle. Thinking a more contained environment may offer a chance at success, my mother signed us up for swimming lessons at the local YMCA. By this time, my sister Emilie was in the picture and she would be in her own little kids' class. I still didn't want to go, and tried to beg off by being too "busy." Well, a ten year old during summer vacation just wasn't too busy for swimming lessons.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I was dubious about going to swim in a big swimming pool. We had a succession of above ground pools that grew larger and deeper every year, and had no need to partake in a public pool. My mom said there was a smaller "kiddie" pool at the Y, and a bigger, Olympic size pool. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Please let me be in the kiddie pool, please!!</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> I pleaded to whatever higher power might hear. On the way over for our first lesson, I let that sentiment slip out. "Well, I'll probably be in the kiddie pool since I am beginner, right?" </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">"Oh, Lissa!" sighed my mom. "You are ten years old! The kiddie pool is for babies and toddlers. You'll be fine in the big pool!" </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">"Is it heated?" I asked. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">"Honest to goodness, Lissa, our own pool isn't heated!" I tried to feel confident about this latest effort, but the butterflies were already hatching. I started shivering before we even pulled into the parking lot.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">The YMCA was your typical big, busy, family centered pool. Instructors shouting, kids yelling, and a fog of chlorine filled my ears and nose. Indeed the kiddie pool was very diminutive and shallow, filled with very small children and no doubt a good deal of urine. It would be the big pool for me.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Things went fairly well at the Y for most of the summer. The pool was cold, so that sucked. Having no choice in the matter, I learned to deal with it. The other children in the class were fine, and I even made a casual friend with one of the girls. Our teacher was a no nonsense young woman with a spiky haircut. Christine was firm, but not mean. I remember the constant temptation to go into a doggie paddle instead of the stroke I was supposed to be practicing. Whenever she caught me or one of the other kids lapsing, she would yell out, "No doggy, no doggy! You're here to learn how to </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">really</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> swim, now show me that stroke!" I still did the doggy on the sly. Perhaps that cheating on my part is one reason I was not progressing much. Everyone managed to phase the paddle out but me. I did not have the desire to get better at swimming like I did at horse back riding or playing the clarinet. What was wrong with the doggy paddle, anyway?</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Any progress I did make came to a standstill one terrible day towards the end of summer. What's ironic is that I felt quite confident that day. My group was the "Polliwogs" and the "Guppies--"older children who were beginners. I sat with my fellow novices outside the pool, chatting about Nintendo and other hot topics among preteens in the late 80's. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Maybe Christine won't be here today and class will be canceled! </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> I secretly thought, like I did every time. And also like every time, she came out in her red swim suit and spiked hair. Sigh. We lowered ourselves into the cold, chemical water. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">"Into the pool, Pollies and Guppies!" she commanded. "Today we work on the elementary backstroke. And you all need to work on it. I want to see straight lines, people!" </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Damn it, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I inwardly growled. This "swim in a straight line" thing was just not working for me. For the stroke, we were supposed to open our eyes every few strokes and make sure we even with the dark line at the bottom of the pool. Well, the over-chlorinated water burned your eyes. And for the backstroke, that was pretty much impossible unless there happened to be a jet contrail right above you that day. Most of the time, I was queen of the zig zag.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Sometimes there were pool dividers to make up lanes; on this unlucky backstroke day there were not. Soon it was my turn to do the backstroke. I turned over on my back, breathed, and began the movements. Arms up, legs up and in, and then push down, arms up, legs up and in, push down and in, repeat. I found myself in a good rhythm. With the water in my ears, the communal noise muffled to near silence. The sky above was a pleasant blue. It was a sluggishly hot day, and the water felt nice for once, almost refreshing. I pictured the opposite end of the pool behind me, pulling me towards it. I felt almost peaceful, and for the first time thought maybe, just maybe, I could be decent at this swimming thing. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">"LISSA!" Even through saturated ears I hear my nickname, which only my family use. Then again, "LISSA!" and someone tapped my shoulder. Why would my parents be at my group's end of the pool? They usually sat in the rest area on the opposite side.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I sat up abruptly, unpleasant noise and commotion barreling into my ears after the quiet. I looked around. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">What the hell? Where was I?</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> My class and Christine were no where in sight. I looked up and saw my dad's face. "You're on the wrong side, honey." The poor man looked guilty, as if he was the one who had messed up. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Oh shit.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> My heart plummeted into my spleen as I realized my mistake. That brilliant backstroke had not brought me straight across the pool. I had swam a perfect diagonal to the opposite corner!</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Now I'm sure my memory has exaggerated this, but I recall the entire pool population staring at me and at least half of them laughing. And to think I had thought I was doing well! I exploded into angry, embarrassed tears and could not be consoled for the rest of the day. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">My parents took pity on me and let me sit out the rest of the day, but insisted I finish the lessons for the summer. Just like when you fall off a horse, you get back on. Somehow for me, falling off a horse was loads less traumatic than botching the backstroke. I did the last few lessons without incident, but the humiliation was not to end. Our last lesson was the test, and then we would receive a card saying if we passed and could move on to the next level. That would either be "Guppy" for the Polliwogs, or "Flying Fish." Even during the test in which I was constantly watched, I still managed to slip into the doggy paddle a few times. Almost everyone in the group got into Flying Fish. My new friend graduated from Polliwog to Guppy. I already knew the answer before I opened the envelope. The card showed the Polliwog symbol, a child riding on the back of a small fish. "Did not pass. Repeat Polliwog" was the message. "Just keep practicing, kid," said Christine, patting me on the head with her knuckles. I appreciated that she did not put me down, and my parents of course said not to be discouraged. But I could not ignore the writing on the card. I failed. I was still a pathetic Polliwog.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Sometimes, failure brings the possibility of freedom. Or so I had hoped that would be the case with swimming lessons. The backstroke incident had been horribly embarrassing, but I had survived it without anyone in school knowing about it. I would be starting that particularly hellish stint of education, middle school. Sucking at swimming was the last thing I needed, now that popularity was a priority. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">But oh no. Mom had other plans. She informed my brother and sister and I that all three of us that we would be starting swimming lessons at the Plymouth Athletic Club in a couple weeks. Not summer anymore? No problem. The PAC had an indoor, heated swimming pool. Why, we could swim there all year! Whoever my mom talked to assured her that their instructors were nice and the classes were small. This set up seemed to specifically cater to the hesitant, the fearful, or in our case the damn near hopeless. How could we possibly fail this time?</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">The PAC swimming experience was certainly the least traumatic out of all them. My brother and I were in a class together this time, and there were only four of us total. The teachers were friendly and encouraged us rather than barked orders. They even got in the water with us and demonstrated techniques, a first in my experience. My only main concern was that the recent perm I had acquired would get ruined. After 10 weeks we took the test, showcasing our back float, stroke, and elementary backstroke. I sat on the side of the pool with Danny, yanking off the uncomfortable swim cap that was shielding my new puff--doo from harm.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">"So, you both completed the test and you did a great job," explained our instructor. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Okay, and? </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> "You really have made a lot of progress, especially in your confidence. Just think back to how hesitant you both were when you first came here!" </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">That’s great lady, just tell us the damn test results! </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "> "Buuuuut....I'm afraid you both didn't pass. Danny, for you it was the stroke. Elissa, your backstroke needs improvement. Please don't be discouraged. After one more session, I am positive you will both pass with flying colors!"</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Seriously? We didn't pass again? This time however, I really didn't care. Actually, I remember Danny and I both laughing a little. There was a young man with Down Syndrome in our class, who I recall was a pretty good swimmer. I can't say for sure, but let's be honest here-- I'm sure he passed. So did my sister from her own group, and she did not let that one go for a while. Danny and I were that bad. At this point it was just funny.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">My long suffering mom finally gave up. I don't think she thought we were entirely hopeless. She probably couldn't stand to see us be put through this again. And we could keep ourselves afloat at this point. Hell, we had learned at least that much. Now we were fully involved in our various pursuits, and really did not need the added pressure of a futile swim class. Just as we began our swim career with a sickness, we ended it likewise, this time with swimmers’ ear infections. But we were free at last.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Like swimming, math was never my strong suit. I needed tutoring all through high school and never made it to calculus. When I passed the required math class at my liberal arts college with a C, I rejoiced. I would never have to take math again, ever! For a very long time I thought the same about swimming. Hell if I was ever going to give that a try again. I surprised myself when I did just that in my late 20's. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">My place of employment is part of a larger community center that offers all sorts of recreation for adults as well as children. Our building was under renovation for a couple years, and when it opened up in 2003 there was a state of the art pool facility. I wanted to start an exercise program, and thought, why not swimming? It is supposed to be a great low impact workout. Who knows, maybe after all these years I would not be as horrendous at it. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I signed up for an adult beginner class. There were only three of us, and the instructor was great--funny, understanding, and a good teacher. Best of all, there was no test to take, so I didn’t have to worry about failing again. I did learn quite a bit in that class. We got to use all these fun tools like floating barbells to help refine our stroke and flippers for our kick. After the class was over, I tried to keep up swimming. But I just could not get into it. Quite honestly, I found swimming boring. And I just did not have the stamina in the water that I had for things like biking. I started doing spin class and cardio kick boxing instead. At least I could say I tried swimming one last time and did not fail. I can also say honestly that I have more confidence in the water when my friends go rafting or I play in the waves at a beach.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">It must have been hard for my parents to see their children not succeed at something, especially something as important as learning to swim. No one was going to tell us we were failures at life because of our incompetence in the water, but like the Talmud says, our life may depend upon it. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Dealing with Dylan’s strong aversion to swimming was a particularly challenging case. We mentioned how upset he got every Tuesday to his parents, but they insisted he calmed down by the time he got down to the pool and that he continue with his lessons. One teacher, a parent herself, was increasingly agitated about Dylan’s weekly dread. “This just doesn’t seem right!” she said to me one day. “I know it is important for him to do this, but is it worth it if he gets this upset? How is he even getting anything out of it?” I could understand her point of view. Dylan’s reactions to swimming were so extreme it made us teachers feel like we were torturing him! I personally could empathize with him. I knew what it felt like to loathe something so much and yet be told you have to do it. I also remember my mom continually pushing me to do this crucial activity over and over. Sure it was not fun for me, but nor did it permanently traumatize me.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">The teachers could not come to an agreement on how to deal with the situation, so our director suggested we call Dylan’s parents in for a meeting. His mother explained something that would have been helpful to have known earlier--Dylan fell into a pool the previous summer and almost drowned. So there is the reason for his extreme fear. Four years of life flashed before your eyes is pitifully short. I wouldn’t want to get near the water again either. That is also the exact reason why he absolutely must learn how to swim now. His parents again said he was going to continue the lessons, and felt with time he would overcome his anxiety. Our director agreed. The teachers would be consistently encouraging and firm with him concerning swim lessons. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">We teachers are fortunate in that we often get to see tangible growth in another human being. Eventually, Dylan stopped shaking and crying at lunch. Soon, he even became excited to go swimming. He talked animatedly about putting his head underwater and jumping in by himself. When he graduated from his beginner “Frogs” class and was cleared to move on to the next level, we all shared in his joy. And we were all content in knowing we had made the right move by supporting the parent’s decision to keep him in swimming. Not only did Dylan face a significant fear and get over it, he was on his way to being secure and skilled in the water. He would gain tools that would help him in a potential scary situation. And his parents were fulfilling their responsibility of teaching their child a significant skill. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">Growing can be uncomfortable. Being put in a situation that does not come naturally is not necessarily fun or easy. But sometimes, it is necessary. In my more self-assured area of horseback riding, I still had some dubious and fearful moments. The first place I learned to ride was run by a vivacious woman who had some unconventional teaching methods, such as threatening to stab our ponies in the butt with a knife if we didn’t keep them trotting. But I do give her credit for not allowing us young ones to get away with any uncalled for fears. One day I was happily riding the white pony I loved, Annie. Another young girl was riding a pony called Symmetry. I was very afraid of Symmetry because one day I saw her make the calculated move to try and remove her rider by trotting under some very low branches. Ponies could be conniving that way. I made the mistake that day by confiding to a friend that “I never want to ride Symmetry!” Well, that instructor must have heard me because I was whisked off Annie and put on Symmetry before I could open my mouth. I knew protesting was futile. Symmetry turned out to be perfectly fine and I learned to never complain again there. I also learned that I wouldn’t die if I had to do something I wasn’t comfortable with. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">The quotation at the beginning is from the Babylonian Talmud, a collection of very old Rabbinic writing. My mother did not know of the Talmud or that saying. My guess is that many people have not heard that quotation. Yet many dutiful parents obey it by sending their happy and excited, slightly timid or bored, or terrified and protesting children to swimming lessons. I am truly grateful my mother really tried to find a way for us to succeed. But did we actually fail? I don’t believe so. True, I am not a strong swimmer. But nor am I afraid of a challenge. Neither are my brother and sister. My mother and the many other parents out there are doing their children a favor by keeping them in swimming, especially the fearful ones. They are showing the children that not only will you live when you have to do something hard, but that someday you may become good at it. What was the doggy paddle in the kiddie pool becomes the backstroke in the deep end. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">The “learning to swim” metaphor can be applied to many aspects of life. It gets tricky in adulthood because, like the children who enjoyed swimming, we think we choose the life we lead. While we do have more choices that children, the reality is we still have to plunge in to uncomfortable situations that are necessary for our continued growth. Many of us find ourselves in patterns that are unhealthy and know they need changing, but are afraid to start the transformation. Perhaps these patterns won’t enable us to drown, but they could seriously hold us back. As adults we may not have our parents or teachers to prod us towards success. Hopefully we have enough insight by now to understand when it is time to jump into a proverbial pool and learn a new skill or behavior--or unlearn an old one.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; ">I trust that all the parents out there will fulfill their duty to teach their child to swim, even if the child would choose not to. I also trust all us grown children take a refresher course now and then, whether it is swimming or something else critical. I leave you with another quote, this one by George Eliot: “It is never too late to become what you might have been.” </span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background-color: transparent; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></div>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-67878272162556312742010-06-26T12:55:00.001-07:002010-06-26T13:25:12.399-07:00The Longest Journey--AIDS Lifecycle 9<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">It began with a ten mile ride to the beach. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Having finally purchased a bike--six months after registering for AIDS Lifecycle 9!--I could not put off training any longer. My friend Matt from work, who had done the ride a few times before, assured me I was already in way better shape than half the people that did the ride. He advised I start doing the weekly training rides that went up to Marin, and were now in the 50 mile range. This was sometime in March.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I couldn't imagine doing a 30 mile ride, much less the 60-100 miles that would happen in a day on the ride itself. And yet, somehow, I would end up doing just that.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I decided to do the AIDS Lifecycle almost a year ago. I did not have a bike, any equipment, nor a clue about serious biking. Basically, I was of that nebulous mind set that I wanted to "do something good for the world and good for myself." And my friends Joe, Lars, and Matt had all participated in the past and had almost exclusively positive things to say about it. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">In February I finally bought the bike and did that ten mile ride. It felt so good and free to be on a bike again--I had completely forgotten that feeling. Soon I did a 17 mile ride, then a 30 mile loop of the city was under my belt. I did my first training ride, a 50 mile up to Woodacre. Thanks to five years of spin class, I did not have to walk any part of the two formidable hills we encountered. I continued going to the gym and rode my bike to work a few times a week. On the weekend, the training rides increased their mileage. 60 miles, 72 miles, 84 miles, and then eventually we did a century up to Petaluma. I went to my boyfriend Dan's house after the 100 mile and I was so out of it I remember nothing of that evening. I imagine eating and sleeping was all I did. I still never walked my bike or used a sweep vehicle, and continually amazed myself that I could this.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Nutrition and training workshops, many fundraising letters, a fundraising party and an event at work helped steer me towards my goals. The training rides consumed my weekends, and I pretty much lacked a life. But I knew I would be thankful for the sacrifice once the ride came.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">And then suddenly the school year was over. Despite a great year and wonderful kids and co-teachers, I was considerably less emotional than usual since the distraction of a 545 mile ride hovered in my mind. The ride began that Sunday. On Saturday we had Orientation day, where we brought our bikes to the Cow Palace, got checked in, and watched a mandatory safety video. I heard all this stuff about how you would have to wait in long lines on O day, but everything I did was a breeze and everyone was really helpful. The safety video, though to be taken seriously had a good dose of humor and raunchiness in it, such as a full on ass shot of someone applying butt balm--foreshadowing the mindset of the ride itself.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">That night I read over my list a million times, laid out my helmet and bike accoutrements, ordered a cab for 4:30 in the morning, and managed to get about two hours of sleep. And then it began.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">Day One--Riders in the fog</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Click clack, click, clack. That was the main sound, the sound of bike shoe clips on concrete floors, in the vast Cow Palace Sunday morning. I forced some food down (now free, as was just about everything from then on!) and kept pacing in neurotic circles, too nervous to sit down. Happily I saw my fellow rider Matt with his room mate and our mutual friend Rebecca to see him off. It was comforting to be with some familiar faces at the dawn of this monumentous occasion.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">We were all herded into the arena to the tune of cheesy inspirational music and cheers from well wishers and roadies, and there the goose bumps began. Here I was; it was happening! Matt and I crowded up to the very front, where the speakers threatened to deafen us. After some welcoming speeches, the Positive Pedalers marched down the middle of the crowd carrying tribute banners with messages to loved ones who had passed away because of HIV or AIDS. They also brought out the "riderless bike" which represents all the people who could not be with us because they had passed away. It was one of the many emotional and powerful moments of the week.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">You may be wondering who the Positive Pedalers are. I certainly had never heard of them before I started training for the ride. They are a group of HIV positive men and women bike riders who have been coming together and creating positive publicity for themselves for I think 15 years now. Their main goal is to eliminate the stigma associated with HIV status. It may seem that we've come a long way since the days of banning children from schools and Magic Johnson from basketball, but there is still a great deal of prejudice surrounding people with HIV or AIDS. One heart wrenching fellow rider's story was about her young nephew with HIV who was not allowed to swim in a public pool. I found the Positive Pedalers incredibly inspiring. Many of them also totally kicked my ass in the ride itself.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Anyway, the mood in the arena made a dramatic switch as an insanely ripped and energetic young man got up front to lead us in stretches. "All right everybody! Get those feet moving, put your hands up, you've got a long ride ahead of you!" Laughing excitedly, we got our bodies warmed up. Then a couple more inspirational speeches, and it was time to go!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">The hisses of tires being pumped and the clack of clips onto pedals resonated throughout the big hall with all the bikes. I smeared on some sunscreen, made sure my bento boxes were secured, tightened my helmet, and took one last deep breath. "Ok, Arrow," I whispered to my bike. "This is it. Be a good bike and carry me safely through this journey." You do what helps calm your nerves, including talking to your bike.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Then along with 1950 other cyclists, I pedaled out into the fog. My mom later told me she watched a video of that moment, and started crying. I felt happiness quivering throughout my entire body. Hundreds of supporters were lined up all the way through the Cow Palaces huge parking lot, and onto the street. I could hardly believe so many people made it out here so damn early in the morning to cheer us on; I almost teared up. Hearing our friends yell "Go Elissa!" gave me another boost of already overflowing adrenaline. We were on our way.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Now I have lived in SF for more than 10 years, and have seen my share of foggy days. There are all types of fog--the block out the whole sky white variety, the swirly wispy kind that is fun to watch, the really damp one that feels almost like it's raining, the cold gray fog of sadness after a sunny spell. But the fog we rode through that early morning was one the thickest and wettest I've ever experienced. As we left the city, I could barely see 20 feet in front of me and I was completely soaked with a half hour. I just laughed. Our lunch stop, somewhere along route 1, was still fog covered and weirdly warm. It was like being under a giant wet blanket. But soon enough fog gave way to abundant sunshine, and we would hardly see a cloud again for the rest of the week.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Much of our route down to Santa Cruz was along Route 1, the road that hugs the coast. I have driven that way a multitude of times, and was always grateful for being so close to its beauty. But everything is so different from a bike! You notice curves of the road, can smell the sea breeze, and notice peculiarities about the landscape that you never would from a car. I am so lucky to be doing this!!! I screamingly thought to myself over and over. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">One constant throughout the whole ride was how people from local communities came out to support us. People of all ages and backgrounds stood on the streets with signs, candy and strawberries for us, or just simply cheered. And while Santa Cruz is a liberal place, that cannot be said for everywhere we passed through--some towns were extremely small and rural. And yet I at least did not hear one negative comment. There was one woman on the side on the road in a chair on Day One, and she did not look so good. "Thank you for riding for me!" she weakly shouted as I rode past. Yowsers. I had to swallow back tears that time. She was one of many living reminders of why I was doing this.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Around four I finally rode into Santa Cruz camp, to the sound of cheering roadies shouting "Welcome to Santa Cruz! Welcome home!" Every day they did that, and every time it felt like they were cheering just for me. Santa Cruz camp was a nice grassy park bordered by a redwood grove. I was anxious to sent up my tent and meet my tent mate since I hadn't yet. She hadn’t arrived, so I had to set it up on my own. Now I am a seasoned camper, but putting together one when you’re smashed in with almost 2000 other people is not easy. I was certain I was going to poke out someone’s eye with one of the poles. Luckily, our nice neighbors Cheryl and Roxie helped me out.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I finally met Ruth, a very sweet and spunky middle aged woman. She as a newbie like me, and also very mom-like. It was kind of nice to have a "mom" for company on the ride! </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">The food was indeed hot and good, and I inhaled a fair amount of it. Then, it was pretty much time for bed. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">Day 2 WHEEEEEEEEEE!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Even with my heavy duty earplugs in, I still was awakened by other campers getting up around 5:00 am. The route didn't even open until 6:30--was that necessary? But I soon learned the routine of packing up, taking down your tent, bringing all the crap to the trucks, and eating breakfast was not a fast process. Ruth and I usually woke up around 5:30--once we "slept in" until 6! But your grogginess soon dissipates when you see your roadies wearing neglige and blasting 80’s music by 6:30.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">So Day 2 was the 107 mile day. That is damn long. This day would have many obstacles and many fun parts, and turned out to be one of the best days of my life.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">We had a heard a million times that the rush hour traffic out of Santa Cruz was really bad in the morning, and we should get an early start to avoid it. Well, the traffic problem wasn’t the cars, it was all us riders! And I don’t think there was any way to avoid it. For about 8 miles it was just intersection after intersection, and at least 20 of us moving as a herd together. How would I ever finish in time?? It got quite frustrating, although I tried to be zen about it. At one point I turned to a fellow rider and asked, “Are we in purgatory?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">But it did eventually end, and soon we were cruising along long stretches of roads next to sweet smelling strawberries. I talked for a while to an older man named John who said he regularly rode 80 mile rides, and sold catalogs to teachers (I think my school gets it.) That was a funny thing about the ride is you would have a conversation with someone behind you or in front, and never see his or her face! Most of the time I enjoyed the quiet time of riding on my own, but occasionally company was nice. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">At the lunch stop I discovered I had a flat tire, and also that my newly bought $30 gloves were missing. Bummer. But I still was making good time. Cannondale bikes donated their services to us and fixed bike issues for free, one of the many perks we got. Miraculously, that was the only flat I got on the entire ride! Some people got a few in one day. Thank you Arrow and your nice sturdy tires. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">With 55 miles to go, the fun really began. Now we were more in the country, and had nice long flat or long rolling stretches, with a tailwind. The Bay Area has plenty of big hills, but soaring along flat stretches is not something I get to do there. It was so much fun! Seriously, I was flying with the biggest smile on my face. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">When I got to rest stop 4, there was only a half hour left. Rest stops have specific opening and closing times, and if you don’t make it in time you will be picked up by a sweep and brought into camp. I really did not want that to happen, unless there was something seriously wrong with me or my bike. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I felt something special happened next, though maybe it was all in my mind. It seemed that all us riders that were still at the stop collectively rallied to get into camp on time. Everyone quietly got organized and got back on our bikes, and headed out, steadfastedly determined to make this happen. Even though I wasn’t talking with anyone, I felt a connection between all of us. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">There was one more unofficial stop before we headed into camp, however--the Cookie Lady! This is just one of the many examples of people from local communities coming out to support us. This woman (don’t even know her real name) bakes thousands of delicious cookies and gives them to the riders for free. While I think everyone appreciates a free treat and generous people, there is a whole new level of appreciation for this type of thing you can’t understand until your butt has been in the saddle for almost a hundred miles.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">For a short stretch we had these horrible side winds, and I almost got blown over several times. Where were the tail winds we had been promised? Finally we made a right turn onto some rolling hills and then--wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! The strong wind was behind us, and literally pushed us up hills and then went swooping down, roller coaster style. To our left was hills, and a large valley filled with growing produce was to our right. It was very different than anywhere I had ever been, and I felt so thankful and alive. After the annoying stopping and going in Santa Cruz, the flat tire and lost gloves, the thinking I wasn’t going to make it and the side winds, this was the ultimate reward. When I rode into King City amidst applause, I felt incredibly accomplished. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">King City’s campground was at an interesting county park that had relics of yesteryear on display, like a old caboose and mining equipment. It was also quite chilly, and the only night I had to wear a hat. Ruth and I had dinner together, and I learned a lot about her, such as she was a writer and had published her own book. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I tried every night to hear the camp announcements and news. The speakers, which including the CEO of the LA Gay and Lesbian Center, a man I think was one of the ones in charge of the ride, and fellow riders were all great speakers and often hysterical. Sometimes they told stories, sometimes showed videos. Often they were more emotional and showed true life tales of people who had barely lived to tell their stories of surviving with HIV or AIDS. Other times they were funny vignettes from the day.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">One night the Lifecycle guy asked how many of us were getting up to use the port-o's in the middle of the night. About half of us raised our hands (not me.) He said, "That should have been ALL of you! You should be hydrated so much that your brain and your bladder have a battle at night--and your bladder wins!" I laughingly drank more water that night, and sure enough, around 2 am had to get up. It was kind of hilarious--many other riders were out in various stages of zombie emptying their bladders. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">Day 3 More like Quadyawner</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I felt pretty crappy when I woke up on Day 3. My body was saying, “Um, why do you hate me??” I felt better after eating, as was pretty much always the case. A typical breakfast for me was a big bowl of oatmeal, pancakes, sausage, yogurt, muffin, and chocolate milk (which had never tasted so good in my life.) I never had a problem hydrating, but if I started to feel bad on the ride, it meant I needed to eat. A couple times I felt close to “bonking”--not eating enough when doing extreme physical activity and your body starts to digest its reserves. I arrived at lunch one day so out of it, I could not put my bike in bike parking correctly. Finally a roadie said, "Sweetie, let me do this and you go eat." Once for lunch we had a foot long burrito that was as thick as two of my fists. And I ate it all and more. Yes, this was my dream come true--I could eat all I wanted!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Day 3 was a “short day,” only 67 miles. But the formidable and much talked about Quadbuster was in the beginning of the day. Honestly, I wasn’t worried about it because of all the training I had done in the Bay Area, where on some days we went up about 10 miles of hills. When I got on my bike, I suddenly had serious doubts about myself. The first 10 miles were pretty flat, and yet I could barely pedal. And my butt was freakin’ killing me. How the hell was I going to get up Quadbuster? I had visions of having to shamefully walk up part of it and almost started crying. But after the first rest stop, I felt fine. This happened to be the next couple of days--the very beginning of the ride was brutal, and then I warmed up and felt great. Unfortunately, the butt hurt would continue until the end--all part of the game.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Quadbuster was a decently challenging hill, but thanks to those sacrificed Saturdays on rides out to Nicasio, I went up it no problem. Not super fast by any means, but I never stopped or had to walk. At the top there were lots of riders and roadies cheering us on, which of course nice. The “sound sweep” car, a SUV with a giant speaker on top, was blasting Journey which never hurts. My friend Matt was at the top, and said “Wow, Elissa, you did it!” Matt had done the ride a few times before and was a considerably faster rider than me. He said he was quite impressed with my training and how well I had done for a beginner. It felt good to get up the Quad, and of course even more good to soar down the other side.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">The rest of the day was pretty chill. We went through some serious rural country--lots of grassland and oak trees. The smell of growing hay reminded me of home. One town the ride passes through is Bradley, population 120. Every year the town’s one school has a big bbq just for us. The money they raise from it goes to their school and provides scholarships for the few students graduating and going to college. I thought it was so wonderful that such a small community is a part of this, and how we end up helping each other. It speaks highly of this place that they are not afraid to introduce their young people to being aware of HIV and different types of people out there. And of course it was damn exciting to have a hamburger!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I made another friend that day, a very nice guy named Michael from Dallas, Texas. He rode behind me for a while and we talked about all sorts of stuff, and told me “good job” whenever I hydrated. I ran into Michael several more times for the rest of the ride and he always called me “sweetie." It is amazing how friendly people were on the Ride, even after being on a bike in 90 degree heat for 8 hours.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Towards the end of the day we passed into Paso Robles, another very rural area with lots of small farms and “Keep Out! signs on property. I couldn’t believe I was in the same state as San Francisco; it felt like another universe. The campground there was in a weird county fair park, and we had to camp on dirt. Not my favorite one, though we did get to eat inside a giant barn which was novel. I remember being so hot at the end of that day, I had to take two showers. It was hot most of the Ride, actually. Many days I soaked a bandana in ice water and wore it around my neck (thanks Ruth for that idea!) and only once wore my long sleeves. At night it always cooled off.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">Day 4 Over the hump</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I woke up on Day 4 feeling kind of blah again, and had a feeling it was going to be a tough one. But soon we would be half way to LA, and that was pretty exciting. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">We had been told we would be going up some big hills called the Evil Twins, and then a few more called the three Sisters or something like that. Whatever--we went up and over a mountain. At the half way to LA point we were clearly up very high--all golden hills and the wonderfully blue ocean not far in the distance. I would have to wait a long while to have my picture taken with the “Half Way to LA!” sign, but since it was my first time I wanted to do it. Almost everyone lifts their bike up over their head, but I didn’t think I would be able to, so settled for the bike at my side and the fist raised in triumph look. I think it came out pretty good, if I say so myself. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Then it was another “wheeeeeee!” time down the other side, and that is when I realized we went over a mountain. It seriously took forever to get to the other side, and then we were back at the coast. I was happy to be by my beloved sea once again.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">The route in the middle part of the day took us through the southern part of the Central Coast, a really beautiful area. We went through the achingly adorable town of Cayucos, which I kind of want to move to. Then it was further south to Pismo Beach and the Morro Bay area. Things started to have a more SoCal feel to them. I really want to go back to many of these places we went--in a car, which is considerable less painful on the rear region. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">We turned away from the coast again and started winding through small towns and woodsy areas. At one random point in the seeming middle of nowhere, a man said “Welcome to Southern California!” Random, but ok! </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I can’t write more without mentioning “Safety Guy.” Safety Guy is a man who was somewhere along the route on every day of the ride. Most of the time he dressed in a condom costume reminding us to be safe, but sometimes he was a giant Viagra. Then he would say, “Thanks for keeping it up!” Ha ha ha!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Several points throughout this long day, I just wanted to cry. I can’t say why exactly, as I didn’t feel that sore or tired. I guess I was a little lonely and really wanted to talk to my family or my boyfriend Dan. They and other friends and family had been sending me wonderful text messages, but I needed to hear loved one’s voices. I decided I would really try to find a hidden outlet at the next campground for my phone and give them a call.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">We went through more growing country later in the day, and some small towns that seemed entirely populated by immigrant workers. Once again, they were incredibly friendly people (many of them children) who came out to wave to us. I have a whole new appreciation for these people who work the fields. The director of the LA Gay and Lesbian center Lorri, who spoke during dinner every night, told a really sweet story. She said that one day on the ride when we were going by lots of produce fields, a Mexican woman in a truck pulled up next to her and asked what was going on. Lorri explained to her about our cause and the riders, and how the money raised helps people. The woman looked thoughtful and drove away. About an hour later, the woman found Lorri again. She had gone around to the other workers and collected some money for our cause--$3.17. These hard working people do not make much money, and it was an incredibly nice thought that they did this. I know there is a lot of controversy about immigration these days, but if you like your strawberries and broccoli, think twice about where it came from and who it took to get it to your plate.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I had a really hard time towards the end of this ride. It was just so damn long--and for me at least, not very nice scenery. We went through some pretty depressed towns, and rather drab farming landscape. I barely made it to rest stop 4 on time. I felt so emotionally and physically exhausted, I seriously doubted by ability to make it the rest of the way. I even started walking my bike to the SAG rack, which would bring me and my bike back by bus. “There’s a good tail wind the last ten miles, riders! You can do it!” I heard a roadie shout. Wait a minute, Elissa, I thought. Take stock of yourself. There is nothing seriously wrong with you. There is nothing wrong with your bike. Now think of why you are doing this. The woman on the side of the street, thanking me for riding for her. The incredibly Positive Pedalers, who are doing the seeming impossible. The HIV+ young man who spoke at dinner last night, saying he would not be alive today if it were not for the services provided by the organizations that we were benefiting. I could DO this. And I did. I got back on my bike and was pushed towards by strong tail winds. Despite the surrounding areas not being so great, Santa Maria’s campground was my favorite. Nice and grassy, and all the service tents close by. I found an electrical outlet and lay sprawled on the grass while I waited for my turn to charge my phone, and felt relaxed and content. Then I had a talk with my mom and dad and Dan, and was much recharged after that.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">Day 5 Mother Nature at her most adorable and at her meanest</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Ruth and I awoke on Day 5 to the sounds of raucous laughter all around us. It was Red Dress Day, a tradition going back a few years on the Ride. The idea started when a rider thought everyone looked like a ribbon winding up a hill, and well wouldn’t it be cool if everyone was wearing red so we looked like the AIDS support red ribbon?? People’s creativity had already shown through many times on this ride--there was a lady who dressed as a clown in full makeup everyday, the guy that rode with ET in the front of his basket, the Chicken Lady--but Red Dress day was everyone’s turn to shine. There was such an array of costumes--fishnet dresses, super heroes, crabs, sea anenomes made from oblong balloons, Where’s Waldo--incredible. I was sort of Where’s Waldo on top, with Snoopy boxer shorts on the bottom, and red ribbons on my helmet. I think every single straight guy was wearing a dress. And they all got applause for their brave efforts at dinner that night!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">The route started out innocuous enough, winding through pleasant towns and such. At one point I saw all these riders pulled over. They had found a field of miniature ponies, including babies! And I’m talking mini--the babies were the size of a beagle. I’m already a major horse lover, and this was the damn cutest thing I had ever seen. Seriously, man or woman, gay or straight, everyone there was cooing “Awwwww!” The ponies even came right up to us. There were a couple other times on the ride where I got to pat a dog or cat or horse, and it would seriously brighten my day. The littlest things make you happy when you’ve ridden a bike for 400 miles.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Things stopped getting cute soon after that. The scenery was nice enough--rolling hills and vineyards that I imagine were like Tuscany. Now the reason the ride goes from SF to LA is because the wind generally blows southward, providing us with nice tailwinds. However, that is not a guarantee, as we learned on Day 5. Head winds up to 30 miles an hour blasted us all the way to camp. It was brutal, and completely zapped my energy. I refused to let it get me down, but it certainly got to others. At one rest stop, people were gathering their resources to get them home. "I need to emotionally prepare myself for this," one man sighed. One woman was complaining, “I hear there is a big hill ahead, along with these f******* winds! Why are they making this so hard for us?” Hmmm. So did the Lifecycle people order these winds to make it “so hard?” I couldn’t help saying something, directed at the surrounding people, not just her. “Well,” I said, “we did choose to be here.” The woman didn’t say anything, but others thoughtfully nodded. Nobody was making us do this, and we could choose to whine and complain or to suck it up and remember why we were doing this. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">It really amazed me how many people were not prepared for the Ride in general. To be fair, you could never really know what to expect until you do it. But many people were in horrible pain, had a really hard time setting up and living in camp, or just felt the Ride was so “extreme.” Hell yeah, it’s extreme! I think most of them still had an amazing time, but did not get everything out of it they could have. And I think they simply did not train, educate, and mentally prepare themselves properly. My coworkers and house mates and boy can attest to what a nut I was and how I had no life by May, but I felt adequately prepared and once again, am thankful for my sacrifices.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Anyway, I persevered and made in to camp once again. And once again, I couldn’t believe I continued to do every single mile. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">Day 6 So much beauty in the world</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Day 6 already? I couldn't believe it. It was kind of bizarre--my butt barely hurt that day. I felt pretty great over all. I guess that come with knowing you're heading down the home stretch, and your body somehow adjusting to the madness. It certainly didn't hurt to see our beloved camp truck roadies decked out in their finest white trash outfits, complete with pillows under shirts and yummy snacks for us such as Spam and marshmallows! Such theatrics may sound silly, but believe me, the tireless and creative roadies really help put a smile on your aching body.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">So many beautiful sights awaited us on Day 6, from Lompoc to Ventura. We went up and over a big hill, and then happily out to the coast once again. Things truly felt like Southern California now--palm trees, deep blue ocean, lots of beaches with people cruisin' by on their cruisers, and perfect sunny skies with an ocean breeze. We passed through Santa Barbara, former college home to many of my friends. I already liked SB, but it gets major points now for hosting "Paradise Pit" for us riders. Every year, residents and local businesses create an unofficial rest stop where we can have all the ice cream and cookies we want for free. They do it just because they really support our cause. I have never had such good rocky road in my life. Thank you, SB!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">The road out to Ventura may have been my favorite so far. We cruised along mostly flat roads and bike paths (always a treat to get off the street) that hugged the coast, lined with flowering trees and palms. What a wonderful near end to this incredible experience. My thoughts overflowed with the people I loved and the undying support they had shown me, and all I had done to get here. I couldn't stop smiling. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Many people besides our roadies cheered us into Ventura. We camped right near the beach here, and for the first time the night was almost warm. This night on the ride is special because everyone participates in a candle light vigil. After the evening announcements, everyone grabs a candle and heads down to the beach in near silence. The sight of all the glowing candles under the turquoise twilit sky was a beautifully somber sight. Eventually everyone sat in a big circle, and it was truly amazing to see how many of us were there, gathered together in quiet solidarity. I thought about my dad's friend Joe, who was HIV positive and had died a few years ago. He was a very sweet and exuberant man who never let his situation get him down. I also thought of all the other people who had died, many of them possible friends I never got to meet. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">After some time, most people walked to the ocean's edge to extinguish their candle. While that is a cool idea, I knew Joe was a unique man and thought he would appreciate something different. I scooped up some sand and let it fall onto the candle until it went out. I slept peacefully that night, basking in the togetherness of this temporary but incredible community, and the excitement of finishing tomorrow.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">Day 7 Life changing, heart warming, hope affirming</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Camp had a distracted, jaunty feel to it in the morning. Everyone was eager to get on the road, and yet this was the last time we would all be together. In my typical neurotic fashion, I started getting worried I wouldn't be able to find everyone that I wanted to say goodbye to. Eventually I relaxed and figured that these things just seem to work out.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Once again, we had another pretty easy, gorgeous ride. At one point 101 stops being a highway, and it was hills and cliffs against the pounding surf. We went up through Malibu, and supposedly past Cher's house. It was rather cloudy when we started out. A couple girls from my training rides commented about it at a rest stop. "Yes, but when we get to the finish line, the sun will break through and it will be beautiful and magical!" I proclaimed. They agreed that would be magical, but doubted it would happen. What do you know, I ended up being right!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">We had our final lunch in the shadow of Pepperdine University, overlooking the ocean. Fortunately, I saw almost everyone I would have wanted to say goodbye to. Ruth my tent mate, Matt and his new friends, training leader Kurt, Michael from Texas, and various folks from my training rides. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">And then it was down the home stretch. The sun started shining as we entered LA, and more and more people started appearing along the roads, cheering on friends and family. I started feeling giddy and a little nervous for the ending. I was in contact with Dan about meeting up with me at the end, and it seemed I would get there a little before him. I could have waited, but I was just too excited. It was ok if he didn't see me ride in; I was just so happy he would be there in general.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Unbelievably soon, I approached the Veterans Affairs Center, the ending the of the Ride. We were funneled through a gauntlet of hundreds of cheering people. The love was overwhelming. First I started crying, and then I threw my head back laughing in pure joy. I heard my training ride leader Joseph, such a sweet and supportive guy, in the crowd clanging his cowbell and yelling, "Yay Elissa!! You did it!" And then I pulled into the grassy finish area. I DID do it! Every single mile.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I finished near the same time as Eric and some other training ride folks, so we happily hugged and rejoiced together. I saw Ruth shortly afterward also, and we exchanged big hugs and loudly proclaimed how awesome we were. Dan was still a few minutes away, so I stood at the end and cheered for my fellow riders. Despite being filthy, sweaty, and disheveled, and I felt great and so full of life at that moment. I called my parents and texted my friends and brother and sister the happy news. My wonderful mom said, "I never doubted for a second you could do it, Lissa! You are my hero!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Finally my baby and I found each other, and we fell teary eyed into each other's arms. It felt so good to hug him and be with someone close to me. We chilled on the grass for a little while, and I picked up my victory t-shirt and all that good stuff. I wanted to stay for the closing ceremonies, but was starting to feel the exhaustive week crash down on me, so we decided to get going. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I'm sure the closing ceremonies were wonderful, but there is a reason I'm glad we did not stay for them. On our way out, I ran into Jo, my cyclist representative. All riders are assigned a rep to help them with training, fundraising, and just the whole daunting aspect of preparing for the ride. Though we had met only a couple times before, we had emailed a lot and she was essential to my participating in the ride. Around January I was doing decently with fundraising, but had not bought a bike yet and was seriously doubting that I could afford one. She gave me some pointers and encouraged me to find a way, which I did. Then I was really scared to start to the training rides, and once again she gave me the boost I needed to start. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I had my huge backpack on when Jo saw me and came running over to us. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and slapped me ten, almost knocking me over because my bag was so heavy. I told her, "Jo, I did it!! I did every single mile--never walked, never took the bus. I couldn't have done it without your help!" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Then she said, "Elissa, I never doubted you could do it. I am so proud of you!" She even gave Dan a hug and asked him, "Are you so proud of your girl?" To which he responded, "Are you kidding? She's amazing!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I'm really glad I got to see her again--and thanks again, Jo! And thank you everyone, new friends and old, family and families of others for being a part of my journey. Believe me, I thought of all of you on the Ride and could not have done it without all the ways you supported me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I was lucky to have the perfect R and R after the Ride. I went with Dan to his parent's house in North County where we sprawled on beaches, were fed copious amounts of food, and slept about 12 hours a night. I felt completely recovered soon, and a week and a half later was on my bike again--albeit on pretty mellow rides.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">"I can see why this is the type of thing that gets addictive," a fellow rider said at some point on the Ride. Several hundred people already signed up for next year. When I ran into Matt back at work, he laughingly said he just signed up again. Next year will be AIDS Lifecycle's 10th anniversary, which will make it even more special than usual. I haven't signed up yet, but I am seriously considering it. I am really hoping to recruit some of you to join me!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I think nearly everyone believes Lifecycle is a great cause, but in talking to people I realized many do not fully understand how it helps those with HIV or AIDS. "There is no cure, and probably never will be a cure for AIDS, so why bother?" some cynics actually say. I can tell you there is SO much more to looking for a cure involved. The SF AIDS Foundation and the LA Gay and Lesbian Center are the two beneficiaries of Lifecycle. One major thing they do is promote HIV testing so people know their status and then hopefully do not spread it if they are positive. The funding they receive allows them to provide testing in poorer areas such as the Tenderloin in SF. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">The organizations also provide numerous resources and support for people who have the disease. They also do general education and outreach to the public, and help organizations in other countries such as South Africa, where AIDS is devasting the population. I heard about or personally talked to several people who said they were alive today because of the services provided by SFAF or LAGALC. And yes, some of the m</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">oney does go to research towards finding cures, effective treatments for symptoms, and a vaccine. Personally, while I think finding a cure is a long ways off, I do think a vaccination could happen in my lifetime. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">AIDS Lifecycle raised $11 million dollars for these organizations that will make a life or death difference in many, many people’s lives.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">I think many people feel they are somehow immune to HIV or AIDS, and some still believe it is a "gay disease." Remember, anyone of any sex, age, race, or sexual orientation can get it. If you or someone you know may be at risk for HIV, please encourage them to get tested. The organizations I mentioned can provide testing in a free, safe, and non-judgemental atmosphere. For more info and just to learn more about them in general, check out their websites. http://www.lagaycenter.org http://www.sfaf.org/ </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">Ok, thank you for listening to my diatribe...I am basically trying to say there that is a long way to go in fighting HIV and AIDS, and much more involved than finding a cure. I remember long ago seeing a quote from Kenneth Cole that said, "Sick of hearing about people with AIDS? In time, they'll go away." Tragically, the men, woman, and children with AIDS will go away. But the disease itself will not if we sit idly by. And one super fun and inspiring way to help is by doing AIDS Lifecycle!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;">So many people were incredibly supportive of me doing the ride, but said "I could never ride 560 miles." I am telling you that you can! Unless you are having a baby soon (a lot of you, I know) and you can make some time commitments to fundraising and training, you CAN do the ride. I would love to have more company next year if I decide to do it. It was truly the most life changing, heart warming, and hope affirming event I have ever done. Come on, people....who's with me? :)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div> </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#00CCCC;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-90257677476654240312009-09-29T18:38:00.000-07:002009-09-29T18:42:53.403-07:00We've come a long way<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">October means many things. Baseball playoffs. Halloween, always a fun event in San Francisco. Me turning 33, not terribly exciting. But noteworthy for me this year is that October 25th marks my 10 year anniversary in the city.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Many of my friends have been here around ten years as well. Recently I've been reminiscing with some of them, remember not only our own experiences, but also ways in which the city has changed.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">When we first moved in here, it was the end of the dot com era. Thankfully many of us, including myself, had places we could move into because finding an apartment then took a whole special kind of dedication. I heard stories of hundreds of people showing up to apply for a room, dressed as if for a job interview, wine bottles and flowers in hand to hopefully impress the landlord. Some of us like me actually shared a room for a time out of necessity. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I remember the first bar I went to, Kilowatt, with some college friends. Those friends lived in the Mission at the time, when the Mission was a kind of sketchy place. Now while it has some rough edges, the Mission is the cool and chill hang out of choice for most young San Franciscans. We might not want to admit it, but we were the ones who helped the gentrification along.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Now that most of us are in our 30's, we consider it pretty damn exciting when we make it out on a weeknight, or even both weekend nights! It is impressive to look back on our early and mid twenties and remember raucous house parties where twelve people spent the night, complete with a band and dj who played until dawn. Going out to Kelly's Mission Rock and The Top until four in the am, actually completing Bay to Breakers (once in pouring rain), towel dancing competitions at Coachella year after year--we were good partiers. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Things change, but it is funny how you are usually ready for the change. I was initially nervous to see friends get married and start families, but these events have been some of the most rewarding and joyous occasions I've experienced. And things tend to come full circle, as well. Now that we have friends that have bought their own houses in the city, the house party is making a comeback.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">My experiences at the jobs I've had out here practically merit their own book. My first job was out of desperation through a temp agency--making telephone calls. It was downtown near North Beach, so I enjoyed getting to know the area. I was the only one who didn't chain smoke during breaks, and instead walked spastically fast around the blocks. Then I worked for $10 an hour at the horse stables in the park, which was fun although I was so poor I took part in a paid asthma research study on the side. Everyone thought I was nuts, but I'm not dead yet. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">While tutoring and babysitting for a variety of cool or completely nuts people on the side, I landed a job at a preschool, where I still work today. To this place I owe so much, as it has given me many wonderful friends and numerous incredible experiences, including a trip to Israel. Some of the hardest things that have ever happened to me happened while at this job, the hardest being the untimely death of a coworker three years ago. But even that tragic event brought people together in a beautiful way, and incredible relationships grew out of it. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Since I've lived in California, I've visited seven foreign countries, went on two amazing road trips, countless camping adventures in the Sierras and elsewhere, a few trips to Hawaii, and many nostalgic and fulfilling visits back home to Massachusetts. I've had my parents visit many times, a number of cousin visits, and some friends come, but would love more!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I have changed quite a bit myself, I believe mostly for the better. A friend was good-naturedly teasing me about how cheap and anti-corporation I used to be. I wouldn't pay more than $5 to go to a club, only shopped at thrift stores, and loudly decried major chains. Now two of my favorite places to visit are Disney World and Las Vegas, and I would be half-naked and starving if it wasn't for Old Navy and Trader Joe's. But I don't consider that selling out. Enjoy the places for what they are, and do good in the world to counteract the greed and excess as much as you can.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I love San Francisco and all the places I've seen out here, but what makes home home for me are the people. My SF friends come from Sacramento, Southern California, New York, New Jersey, England. They come from the Midwest, Canada, South America, Massachusetts like me, or are native to the Bay Area. They are teachers, writers, producers, managers for successful companies, talented artists and photographers and musicians. They are why I am still here.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">A while ago, a good friend asked me what was the most significant decision I ever made in my life. The answer was easy--the one to move out to California. It was a decision I made spur of the moment. I suppose there may be a parallel universe out there where I live on the East Coast. I probably would be happy and successful in that life. But I can't imagine an existence without the places, experiences, and especially people that are in my West Coast life. Thank you to you all.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Here are two new poems, both about recent experiences I had in California. Thank you to Anna, Sam, Gina, and Eamon for being a part of them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Dwelling Place 9/27/09</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Day 4 in the Sierras is supposed to be an easy day. Day one is for acclimating, day two we can climb a little higher, day three welcomes a strenuous hike, day four should give legs and lungs a break.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">That never happens.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">The Eastern Sierras' beauty is quiet, harsh, intense. Our eyes tire quickly in the thinner and bluer air, glare from granite and tarn bounces into the iris. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">My skin is a map of mosquito bites, sun scald, and white dryness. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Our muscles are sore in ways they were not when we did this ten years ago. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Our abdomens' clench and bloat in the 10,000 + foot altitude. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">It is not necessarily comfortable to be here. But it is necessary. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">So I am humorously dubious at the start of this "easy" day. We ferry over navy blue Saddlebag lake, sun hot and wind cold. My friends says, "We'll just head towards the glacier and go as far as we want." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">But we always want more, always! There will always be another lake in that valley, perhaps a river or a mining ruin, maybe even a peak attempt.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Today's promise of a glacial lake is too tantalizing. We will go all the way, no matter how much we tell ourselves we do not need to reach the end. Nature brings out a greed in us.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">The basin hike starts out on a dusty path with green shrubs and surging stream. When we stop for water, the mosquitoes could make me cry. Onwards, upwards, don't forget to breathe, keep your eyes up. A pika may spot us.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">We break above the trees. The mosquitoes are temporarily sated with our blood and wait below. Slog on, slog on, and then we can see the lip of the basin, and sun glinting off the glacier itself. How can we stop now? We are metal, the glacier magnet. We happily submit to its force and are pulled up.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Scramble over bright gray rock, sky too blue even for sunglassed eyes, stifle stomach pains. And then we arrive. Our map tell us we are in Inyo National Forest; Inyo meaning "Dwelling Place of the Great Spirit." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">And some great spirit dwells here for sure. Darkly quiet except for human panting, the ridges of the basin scratch the sky. The glacier itself is rather unglamorous--a large slab of dirty snow that leaves black water stretch marks down mother mountain's side. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">A bruised blue lake hunkers under the glacier, absorbing it in minuscular measurements. Slushy ice streaks are drawn across, and I lower myself onto a granite slab to better hear the ice. Tiny blips of air shoot their way through the slush, and pop on the surface. I penetrate my finger into glacial innards, happy for its bite.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">We feel we have to ask permission to dwell here ourselves. It is oppressive and holy and beautiful; an ancient monster sleeps nearby. A feeling of danger lurks--crumbly rocks hover just on the edge of gravity, crystalline snow runs precarious over hypothermic waters. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">But we're not done yet. One more perfect lake exists beyond our sight; we are too close. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Stumble, clamber, boulder. We are not so much tired as lulled into a mellow stupor by lack of oxygen. One last heave, and there it is.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">This first run of glacial waters is a calm turquoise. Not clear like tropical waters; it is opaque and milky. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I could drool over so much of my favorite color. I want to dive through it, drink its siltiness, bottle it and bring it home, though I don't do any of those things.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Watch. Listen. Purge the regularness of life from my body and let the Great Spirit dwell there for a moment. Turn myself inside out, feel the wildness on my organs.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Then we hear a crack of ice! A loud and wet sound, the sound of geological time sloughing by. The earth ticks another second older. How lucky we are.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">We imagine sleeping here, cradled in stony arms, sung to sleep by a monster's requiem. But we know it would be neither safe nor wise to do so. Stay here too long, and you may be permanently absorbed into the Spirit's corporeal being.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">The Spirit grants us permission to leave, as it did permission to stay. We could dwell here forever, but have done so long enough. With a silent nod and a satisfied smile, we take our leave. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">As is the case when looking back, I don't remember the discomfort.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I just remember the ultramarine pool, the brooding peace, the earth aging slowly.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Selfishly, I kind of wish I had taken a piece of it with me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">A tiny bit of rock.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">A little bit of lake.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">A sprig of bush.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Would the Spirit have followed me home?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">No, and I know this. If anything, it would have forsaken a thief.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Instead I just think. And plan to go back.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">The Lucky Ones 9/28/09</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I don't</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">consider myself a</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">masochist.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">But</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I still go</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">to spin class.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I subject myself to </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">sweat, pain, and constant yelling</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">by the instructor.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">One day, seeing that we were </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">not working as hard as we could,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">she screamingly </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">reminded us that</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">"Spin class is optional, you know!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">True, and I panted out a laugh.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I don't have to come here. Yet it doesn't make</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">spinning any easier.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">But another time </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">she told us in a </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">calm and measured tone,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">"You chose to come to spin class.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Actually, you are lucky to be here."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">What? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Why, I suppose I am lucky to feel</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">heat</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">discomfort</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">exertion</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">by my own choice.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">When else </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">do I chose my luck? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Or even when not a choice,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">am I most fortunate?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I think back to a </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">day spent on the beach</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">with my friend and her toddler.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">The little boy</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">felt all of life in</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">his small body.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Simply to run</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">was the happiest joy</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">for him. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">He may not </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">know his luck yet, but the</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">seed of good fortune</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">is sprouting within him; he</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">will know it in time.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">This day was not </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">warm.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I wore only a sweater, the </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">wind zipped right through</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">holes to my skin.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">The cold lingered long</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">after I had gone inside,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">and I felt shivery all night.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">But how blessed is it</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">to have a beach</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">a sweater</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">a place to go into and still feel cold.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Also that day</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I risked bare feet</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">and therefore cold feet</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">and wet jean cuffs</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">and stepping on dead jellyfish, which I did.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">A most interesting sensation:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">my foot sluiced through</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">transparent Jello. I </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">could feel the layers of</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">gelatinous skin compress underneath me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Easy to think "yuck," but again</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">how fortuitous to have</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">a jellyfish</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">an ocean</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">a foot to feel cold death against.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Those of us</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">with the generally comfortable life,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">like me,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">are reminded to </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">count our blessings, be thankful.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">When we complain, which</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">we do,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">we are sometimes reminded</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">to think of those without.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I do think</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">it is ok to complain.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">There may be the </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">job</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">bad relationship</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">no relationship</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">low money</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">bad health.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">There are reasons.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">And you are not terrible to lament them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">But there are the things within</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">all those reasons.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Think about them sometimes.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Think of them</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">and be thankful </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">they are there.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Like I will think about the </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">spin class</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">the sweater </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">the jellyfish.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">That I</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">you</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">we</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">are truly </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">the lucky ones.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-85511785792292911322009-06-16T15:50:00.000-07:002009-06-17T09:35:40.469-07:00The Truth is Right Here<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">I am taking a departure from my usual rainbows and unicorns because I have realized something, and I need to get it out.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Conspiracy theories annoy the hell out of me. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">For a long time I found them mildly stupid and not at all harmful. Then I saw this line of graffiti in a San Francisco cafe bathroom: "Know what's coming. Google 'FEMA concentration camps.'"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Well, I have to give the graffitier credit. Never having heard of such a thing, I did most certainly did look up "FEMA concentration camps" on the internet when I got home. A crapload of websites came up, and as well as Youtube clips with supposed footage of a concentration camp, right here in the U.S.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Basically, the people behind this one are claiming that FEMA is not an emergency and preparedness task force. They are instead a section of the government that has the authority to take over every aspect of life, including control of all transportation, food, and education. There are all sorts of "first hand accounts" of people talking to Marines who admitted purposely killing children and all sorts of other barbaric things.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">FEMA also has "concentration camps" all over the country, "empty, but fully guarded and ready to take prisoners." Believers say these camps will be for "dissenters" or the any people the government considers "undesirable" in the event of a catastrophe. Eyewitnesses have also found mysterious trains that must be ready to ship prisoners, unaccounted for train stations, "hundreds of thousands of plastic coffins," etc, etc.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Unsurprisingly, most of these websites belong to far right, government fearing groups that also warn us of the "New World Order" and the Illuminati. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">I've shook my head in pity at the ignorance of most people falling for these myths, but this one took the cake. When you enter "FEMA concentration camps" or something like it into a search engine, there are also a number of sites that address the hoax and disprove every myth. The Youtube clips are actual footage of some sort of prison camp--taken in North Korea, a place that I am not surprised would have such a thing. The trains and train stations are perfectly normal. The "plastic coffins" are also perfectly normal coffin liners. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Unbelievable. Literally. And yet--so many people believe.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">And this is why it makes me angry.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Do I think our government is corrupt and has done some messed up things? Hell yes! The 2000 and 2004 elections, the handling of Hurricane Katrina--our government is very flawed. But holing yourself up with lots of guns so you don't get taken to a concentration camp is not the answer. If you want change in your country, start a grassroots organization, volunteer, run for office yourself. Better yet, join Amnesty International or a similar organization and find out what the hell North Korea is doing with a prisoner camp. That is how positive change will begin to happen. Not by creating or feeding into outlandish stories.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">I also find it near irresponsible to create such tales when unimaginable horrors have transpired and continue to exist in this world. It is no secret that concentration camps were used to detain and then kill people during WWII. It is also no secret that the systematic killing of groups of people still happens. Bosnia and Rwanda are not far behind us, genocide in Darfur happens as you read this. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Why then, waste your energy believing our government is "out to get us!!!" when you could be using some that energy dedicating yourself to stopping the atrocities that continue today?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">The FEMA conspiracy theory is the most recent in what I feel is a long list of ignorance and denial. Part of the appeal of conspiracy theories arises from people not wanting to accept that bad things happen. I think JFK and Princess Di are examples of this. People die in car crashes and get shot every day. It is a tragedy no matter who it happens to, including the rich and famous. It seems to be almost a comfort to people to think that sinister, secret forces are at work rather than the will of the universe. It gives an idea of slightly more order in the world. But the reality is, shit just happens sometimes.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">I will admit 9/11 is a tricky one. The administration was certainly shady about many things. And I've read all about the possibility of planted explosions and the mystery surrounding WTC 7. Some of it is compelling, though I have also read articles that have thorough explanations for everything. For the moment, my stance on this one is that there is a very good chance the government was aware the attacks were going to happen, but they were not planted by the government. When the theory goes into the "no planes hit" territory, I get angry again. There actually is ample evidence of the planes, at all the sights--and there were people on those planes, and they are all dead. Isn't rather disrespectful to the victims' families to suggest there were no planes? I think it is extremely disrespectful. And just plain stupid.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Again, 9/11 is another example of people not wanting to accept the truth that evil exists outside as well as inside. 9/11 was a terrible tragedy, but to be frank we have been incredibly sheltered compared to other places in the world. What about so many other nations that have endured years of war or occupation from outside forces? I'm pretty sure those nations do not think it is "an inside job." Is it because we have experienced few acts of aggression from outside factions on our own soil that makes it is so hard to accept that another would attack us and it must have been from within? How about questioning WHY someone would want to punish us and try to change our image and actions, instead of assuming our own government was behind it? I think it was Dan Rather that actually said something like that shortly after 9/11.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">For a while, I felt it was just laughable that people did not believe we put people on the moon, but now that pisses me off too. Obviously this one is not as harmful because it does not involve death and destruction, but this one particularly shows how easily people flock to something out of ignorance. I think it almost "cool" to believe in this one. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Every single hoax claim regarding the moon landing--the shadows, the flag, moon rocks, stars, radiation, everything--has been busted. They have mostly notably been debased by my faves, the guys from Mythbusters. The top reason people give for why the government would do this is so we would have a one up on Russia. First of all, Russia had been to space numerous times by then. They were first the ones to send an unmanned ship to the moon, first to send one to Venus, first to do a spacewalk, and first to send a woman into space. Granted, humans on the moon is a big achievement. The "space race" was very back and forth in the early days, and it the claim that the U.S. needed to prove one to Russia just doesn't make much sense.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Now if we did fake it, don't you think Russia and many other major world powers would have figured it out, been pretty pissed, and let the whole world know? Ever think about everyone yelling liar is from the U.S.? You don't ever here Russia screaming that we made it up. And the idea of the money and time the government would have to spend to pull this one off is ludicrous. Finally, nearly everyone claiming the moon landing was a hoax knows little about space. The debunkers of the myth are all scientists and astronomers--and while NASA has a site dedicated to debasing the myth, many have nothing to do with NASA. Just please, educate yourself. Don't think you're a holier than thou hipster because you believe this one. You're not. This one is simple common sense.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">I just found a great quote by the Mythbusters guys. It is regarding the moon myth, but it can be applied to any conspiracy theory.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204); font-family:-webkit-sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"There seems to be a common tendency among conspiracy theorists, as well as among a lot of people with entrenched belief systems, to get stuck on an idea and never give up. Conspiracy theories are not really a special category -- maybe you can call them myths, but I look at them as an obsession that people want to maintain, like being abducted by aliens, Bigfoot and so on. You can't really expect that reasonable evidence will change anyone's mind if they are determined," observed Hyneman.</span></span><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">"The moon hoax shares its roots with every other conspiracy theory: the strangely comforting idea that someone is REALLY in charge, for good or ill. The idea of an overarching intelligence that moves things and public opinion with perfect precision is the subject of countless books and movies, but in reality it's far from true. We WANT it to be true, but good and evil are usually far more banal," explained Savage. "Do we really think that the same government that screwed up so badly during the Watergate scandal could have perpetrated the moon hoax? Come on!" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Exactly. The government DOES screw up--Watergate another example. But pull off the moon landing and other things? Just think about it. Think for yourself; don't follow.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Finally, a word about "evidence." Before you start spouting off stuff about explosions and the way buildings fall and shadows on the moon being evidence of a conspiracy, think about it. Is that evidence, or is that speculation? How can you know your (most likely) internet source knows what they are talking about? When you examine myths and conspiracies closely, you will find they contain very little hard proof of what they are claiming. Remember the "Satanic Cult" scare back in the '80's? Supposedly the world was rampant with these cults, they were abusing children and killing babies, and Geraldo even did a special about it. Turns out there was hardly anything to supporst these claims, and the whole thing was considered a hoax.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">In conclusion, the universe is random. We are subject to its entropy. People will die young that shouldn't, enemies will attack, seeming miracles--like men on the moon--will continue to happen. There isn't a whole lot you or I can do about it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">If you are a conspiracy theory believer, you probably have some things to say to me. That's fine. And I do not think you are an unintelligent ignoramus. You are probably an insightful, compassionate person who read some compelling "evidence." All I encourage you to do is this--learn. Learn about the corruption that actually is happening here. Learn about the suffering that is very real around the world. And you CAN do something about that. Be wary of every piece of "evidence" that comes your way. Where did it come from? And why is it circulating? Are there any <i>real </i>smoking guns? Yes, we should question what we're told. That does not mean believe every story out there. Did you believe every urban myth told to you as a child?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">I will be doing my best to address the real evils that are occurring right now. I will be very wary of any conspiracy theory that comes my way. If you believe in them and tell me about it, I will ask you: do you really believe this? Or do you believe it because others do?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">And if I'm wrong? If the government murders its own, imprisons its people, and the Illuminati is running the world?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;">Well, I guess I'll see you in hell. Oh sorry--it will just be me in hell. You will have been saved by the Second Coming.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#33FF33;"> </span></div><div><br /></div>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-77235325657494035312009-05-03T14:42:00.000-07:002009-05-23T12:18:56.522-07:00What I Brought Back<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Most of the time, I am thankful for the dwindling nature of memory. Life can be overwhelming enough. We couldn't possibly live a normal life with every experience we've had at the forefront of our minds.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">But how I do wish the memories of travel stayed with us a bit longer...or rather, that the travel afterglow lingered for just a bit more.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">When I got back from my time in the Middle East, that specific "travel feeling" clung to me for exactly a week. I wandered around in a dopey, happy haze. The smells and sounds were still within grasp. Since most of the trip was an intensive learning experience, I had much to process. The thoughts and feelings started at the top of my head, and continued to melt down through me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I felt so certain this trip would stay with me the longest.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">And so soon it started to fade away.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Many people asked me, "When are you going to write about your trip, Elissa? You must have such great writing material now!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Of course I did have lots to write about--but it has taken--and may yet continue to take--some time. Israel is not a place to remain unmoved and neutral, no matter where you stand. There was much to filter through in the days that followed.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">So far a couple of poems have come from the experience. I may not be able to recapture that feeling in full--but writing the poems was a little like visiting again. And until I can visit again for real, that will have to do.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Where have YOU been? Or, where are you going? Go.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Salty Breakfast 4/27/09</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">"Boker Tov!" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I blink red-eyed at the sunny smile sitting at the breakfast buffet desk, searching for the Hebrew response to good morning. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">"Boker Or!" My mouth fumbles around the alien words. Morning light. My brain is gummy with jet lag and exhaustion. I pry it open each morning for the deluge of facts and experience that comes with the day. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Deep breath in, and enter a clinking and crunching commotion.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Blood sugar drains down my spine, leaving my brain hollow and achy. Juice will help. I rush to the beverage table, and drain what I suppose to be orange juice into a glass.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">But what is this? Eyes scrunched, I peer at the pallid concoction in my glass. It is definitely not fresh squeezed. More watered down than concentrate...yet salty-sweet. Is it? It is. Tang.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Hmm. So they like Tang in Israel. I can live with that. Now for the food. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Scanning the steaming rows, I first notice what there isn't. No bagels. No pancakes. No waffles. No more thinking. I turn off my brain and take.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">After many tong fumblings and awkward "no, you first" with other travelers, I sit and stare at my plate. I took some things that are not the norm for my breakfast. No fear allowed.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Cottage cheese is a familiar comfort to start with. I spoon it in. Surprised by a thick tanginess. I semi-successfully spoon it onto a round roll, shove it dripping into my mouth. Laugh. This is fun.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">The buffet was fertile with salad. Lentil, cabbage, carrot, pasta, pickled vegetables. Crunch into the cabbage. Peppery, brackish, and slippery. Perfect counterpart to the chewy, soft cheese and bread concoction.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Now for the next step. Pickled herring. I carefully introduce it to my tongue. And am shocked by delicious brininess, the texture firm and inviting. I can do fish for breakfast.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Cheesed pasta--not unusual for lunch, but this is 7:30 am. Kind of heavy. Sip bitter and sweet Wysottsky tea, pray for it to be found at home. Orange watermelon, yellow grapefruit, lemony avocado. I squeeze it in, no longer hungry, but because I can. And we do. I look at my companions, each drowned in his or her own adventure: struggle down instant coffee, indulge in Cookie Crisps with 3% milk, suck on hard boiled egg. Get up and get more and more and more!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I saved my obsession for last--a plateful of Kosher pickles. Julienned, a deeper olive green. I could cry at my favorite food being offered at all hours. Place one in deliberately--one would think I was savoring a damn priceless truffle. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Yes. Nothing could have made this better. There is no vinegar in these pickles. Just a simple brine, which I suck out, then bite down into a crunch. I eat one and another and another, until a lonely white plate with green tear drops stares back. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Drunk on this salty newness, I see my friends stretching into action. Time to go. One last swallow of Tang for the road.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Surprise? After all the savory salinity, the Tang kind of works. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">The day is ready for me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Three Times to Kotel</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">4/30/09</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Achat</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">The sky spits on us as we walk through the Dung Gate--an unceremonious introduction. We are lagged and still adjusting: spine empty, brain grasps at everything handed to it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">As we approach the square, the sun does not come out. There are no rainbows to confirm a revelation. The sky remains a watercolor gray wash above.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">But then we pass through some sort of vortex: an immediate energy change shivers through me. Our walking bodies fall into a murky slow motion. Wall up ahead to the right, fortress to the left, ice-rink golden limestone underneath. I look, and look, and look.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">We stop, to listen and learn about this place. But I am not for learning right now. The wall wants me to feel it. I stand impatiently in my body. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">And then I hear Jerusalem.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Ash-hadu an la ilaha ill-Allah.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Ash-hadu an la ilaha ill-Allah. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">The Muslim call to prayer. Haunting, alien, resonates across the square and through my organs.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Then the clanging of the Christian churches. Familiar, slightly jarring, counterpoint to the call.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Underneath it all, the vibration of prayer and wailing at Kotel itself. Even at this distance the exposed emotion transfers.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">How is this happening? How did I get here? Everything comes together at the Kotel everyday. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">But for me this is once in an eternity. Surreal, and so real....</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I accept my place at this moment. Contact will Kotel will come. I can listen.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Shtayim</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Evening now. Aquamarine twilight soothes down the golden walls. Now we can touch.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">A small group of us move towards the women's side. We approach slowly and with reverence. I clutch a piece of white paper filled with printed prayers of friends, family, and students:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I wish people would stop fighting and have a peaceful day.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I wish my tummyache would go away.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">May all beings be free of suffering.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I hope people stop throwing trash on the ground.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Will there be room for my note? I suddenly get nervous in this position of an ambassador of prayer for so many.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">There are many women praying close to the Wall. Some are davening, but in near silence. I feel large and awkward. Is it ok to be doing this? My friend smiles at me, anticipating and encouraging. We get closer.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">It takes a minute to find space. I stick my arms against myself so not to jostle the pious. Finally there I am, squeezed up against a stairway on the far right side. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Before reaching out, I look up. The Kotel is much taller than I had thought. And this was only the outside wall of the Temple. Imagine the real thing...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">My hand reaches, makes contact with the Wall. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Smoothness. That is what touches me first. Glossy, no rough edges on this surface.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I run my hand up and down it, and the magnitude of it all crashes onto me--how many hands have felt this, rendering it so polished? Thousands and thousands. So many tears and hands and raw emotion laid bare onto this surface. It pulses into me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I look to my companions, wondering at their experience. One has her head bowed to the wall, eyes closed, deep in touch with it. The other looks at me, her face open and smiling in recognition of the incredibleness of this moment.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Remembering my mission, I remember to breath and concentrate. Predictably, there are no vacancies in the cracks around me. No choice but to unceremoniously put my prayers on the ground. The paper looks like a common piece of trash down there. I feel shrunken and childlike, wondering if my and everyone's prayers will be heard. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Surely God will hear them in my mind? This is the closest you can get to God, many believe...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I creep closer. Close eyes. And think. Hard. For me. For everyone.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Peace to Israel and all people of the world. Health and happiness to my friends and family. Peace to friends and family no longer with us. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">My parents' prayer. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">May Elissa and her group have a safe and mind expanding trip.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Four year old Brody's seemed especially relevant. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I hope that people stop fighting over the Jesus story.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Fingers continue to stroke the smoothness that has seen everything, and I feel something. A humming, singing vibration. My hand stops. Right there.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I don't know where God is. If God is. But an energy persists here. As if the Wall has absorbed all the emotion, fervor, longing, tears into it. I cannot avoid it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Or maybe God is here after all. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I see my companions backing away, and I break contact. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">We walk backwards; slowly, slowly. Back into the walking, talking now. Back into comfortable, Godless reality. We go on with our night.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Remembering that smoothness to this day. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Shalosh</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Friday evening. We are deposited here once again to witness the Shabbat fervor for ourselves.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Alone I go towards the wall. But this time is different. There is a hushed intensity among the ever-increasing commotion in the square. I feel more an interloper than an anticipated guest. But I need to see this.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Woman pray quietly, sitting or standing by the wall. The men's side, starting to swell with noise and activity, tempts me to watch. I glue myself to the partition, peer between the metal slats.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">First I smile at our three guys, let loose in the mayhem. They have pulled up chairs right in the middle, absorbing the pious pandemonium around them. I envy them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I see all sorts of hats entering. Tall black ones, circular fur ones, kippahs. What else is there? Long black coats, army green jackets, blue windbreakers. Long gray beards, trimmed ones, smooth child faces. Guns.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">There is a maddening stacking and unstacking of white plastic chairs--to what end I have no idea. Men start to gather in small groups, nodding, talking, touching. A celebratory seriousness.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Still more come and come...where are they fitting? They stream into every open space, eddy into the corners. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Sometimes I focus in on one person. An older man mouths words from the Torah in his hand, slightly rocking back and forth. Behind him, a young man in bright blue kippah and raincoat spasmodically sways in a veritable trance. Amazing to see, and a little frightening in its unfamiliarity.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I look back to my male trip mates, and see they have disappeared. Maybe the thickening intensity finally got to be too much for them. It would have for me. I remain shielded behind the division.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Energy and voices continue to swell. And I hear something--something I know!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">David melach Yisrael,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Chai, chai, vekayam...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">A song we sing with the children at Shabbat, being sung here at Kotel! I feel a surge of connection once again to this place that was distancing from me. I cling to the slats, pressing closer.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Now it is nearly dark, and the men's area nearly full. Songs everywhere rise on voices, bodies rock back and forth, arms grip around backs. Pulsing energy rides a wave of raw religion.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I shiver out of my own trance, and notice my whole group stands together in the square, minus me. Once again I back away, slightly pushed on ripples of zeal. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Once up and away and released, we look down on the joyful madness. Even at a distance the voices shine on, now in full discordant harmony. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Shabbat means day of rest, but the Wall Shabbat seems the farthest from rest. Celebrate first--rest will come. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">The third time I was not so much a part of things--almost a voyeur--but remain thankful for having seen nonetheless.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">We stroll along fortress walls, bask in the turquoise twilit calm. The wall retreats behind me, ever and ever farther away.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Kotel is now months and miles from me. Everyday more and more. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I have left the wall. I may leave it again some day. But it will never leave me. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-16967288805895258182009-01-14T19:58:00.000-08:002009-02-08T16:01:53.570-08:00What is the Real Near Death Experience?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I'm not trying to be morbid or anything. But death is something that has kind of been on the mind. I attribute it partly to strife in the world, and to the fact that in a month I will be visiting a country that is currently at war. This is something I have never done before. And some people in my life are understandably concerned.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">But how do I feel?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Incredibly fortunate.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I feel this way because I, like many, live a sheltered life. It will be an incredible experience to go to a place where stability is not guaranteed. It will be incredible no matter what.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">It is not like I am completely unafraid of death. I have recently developed a fear of flying. And what is that really is about is a fear of dying. It is not so much about death, but that I don't want to stop living. I don't want to miss out on what's to come. But what can I do about it? Not a whole lot.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">There is the possibility of danger on my trip. There is the possibility of that anywhere. Life is the near death experience. And that is exactly why we should live without fear. Try to, anyway.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Here are a couple poems about this subject. Spread the love and not the fear.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">The Worm and the Word</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I search for signs of death on this afternoon walk.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Like much of San Francisco, Buena Vista park once housed the deceased.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Their bodies were quarried long ago, but the headstones remain.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Fractured into large bits, they are much more useful as pieces of the walls that line the walkways.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Scouring the damp paths, something else catches my eye--an enormous worm, trying to burrow into the wall.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">He is not the diminutive garden variety, but a long, engorged night crawler--being bright daytime, he is pulling an “all nighter.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Boring into a stone wall is a futile job. So I grab him. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">The violent disruption of work inspires a spasmodic dance of protest in my hand.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I watch, delighted.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I glance down at his attempt at penetration. The stones were scraggly gray granite, except one. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Ivory marble glowed ghostly from the earth. A fragment of gravestone.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Still holding the creature, I squat down and drag my fingers across the stone. It is bone cold smooth, and lovely.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I have to laugh. The cliché of it all--finding a worm, the eater of decay, digging near a gravestone!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Stroking my viscid friend with my thumb, I see the one remaining word upon the grave--”DIED.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">My laughter folds into a thoughtful frown, as the mention of death often will do.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">That is all that is left of this person? No “Loving Husband,” “Cherished Mother,” “Beloved Brother” or “Sister?” </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">No. Just that he or she, some unknown time in the past, “DIED.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">As if to remind me of his role in all this, my companion waves his blind head in the air.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Where was the worm going? Is he finishing a job started long ago? No doubt this annelid’s ancestors rendered the bones of ours. Will his progeny feast upon our children’s children’s children? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I see the word again: “DIED.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">But are the dead forever dead?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I look up at the eucalyptus tree. That body now rests in the chloroplasts of leaves.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I feel the sun’s photonic fingers tickle. The individual’s soul is beyond Antares. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">And all that is left to the rest of us is one word and one worm.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I look around at the cretinous mass of joggers and dog walkers and baby-pushers. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">We all brush death off, though the leaves and stars await us as well.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">My clammy friend stirs, hopelessly trying to bore into the crease in my hand.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I place him in the soft dirt above the stone, with a nod of respect to him and the missing dead.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Someday, we’ll meet again.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Whispering Room</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">All I know about the Columbarium is that it has a "whispering room:" a perfect circular shape that allows one to whisper and be heard on the opposite side.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Sounds like a fun diversion, and I take my six year old companion Ali in a spontaneous moment.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">We arrive at the stately and solemn building, my eyes glancing over the words "This is an Internment for Endowments." Don't know what that means. We enter.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Inside, the hushed air quiets us. Lazy light drifts through stained glass, and we notice four orbicular levels rising above the open center. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Look around. We are surrounded by names. Names on strange drawers built into the wall, and boxes, and shelves, and oh....I see where we are. We are with the dead, with their dusty remains to this earth.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I keep fearfully still as I carefully explain to Ali. Will he be frightened? But no, he is calm and accepting, as children often are of these things. Taking my cues from him, I decide it is safe to explore. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Slowly we circumnavigate, trying to imagine these named niches as a living body. They were once messes of flesh and water, blood and organs, disappointments and dreams. Now they are neatly compartmentalized on a shelf. So much simpler.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">We see this "Internment" is more personal than your average graveyard. There are letters, jewelry, toys, other possessions the deceased is allowed to "keep." These artifacts speak of travels, interests, loved ones.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">George has a stone hippo.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Kelly, a glass carousel horse. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Otto--only 2 years old--a Hotwheels car.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Vincent--a Kit Kat! Even the ashes of a cat are with one man. I am astounded by the ingenuity of humans, even in death.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Outside of Richard's urn, there is a gathering of cards, teddy bears, and flowers. I see "Happy Birthday!" and "I miss you" written on the cards. I can't help to touch an antique metal tin among the offerings. Now I have a connection to this man I will never know.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Ali, a boisterous little Italian, is unusually pensive and quiet. I point out interesting items and read him names and epitaphs, and he takes it all in. But I censor some unspeakable tragedies, like several family members who all died on the same day. I can only picture an appalling accident.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">We notice the drawers have handles on them, which leads to some questions I don't really want answered. Can you ask to see your beloved's ashes? Would you want to? Do they continue to decompose until there is nothing? Nothing to see, anyway?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Up and up we wind to the top floor, intruding our presence among the forever rested. We decide not to try the whispering game after all. Such a diversion would be abrasive.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">There are many "Reserved" empty cases, so patiently waiting for their owner to come home. One stands out-- a Post-it note attached to it says, "Ann--Now you never have to worry about leaving San Francisco! --Jim." Funny, sweet, and macabre. I am a bit taken aback by this laugh at death.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I try to meditate on a vacant mini-lot. How does it feel to look at your own "plot," knowing your dust will be there longer than you were on earth?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I think about it....</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">But all I can think is how small it is. So small...and suddenly I am cramped and nauseous. I tell Ali it's time to go.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Outside, we breathe the uncloistered air and take stock of our corporeal selves. I brush myself off, as if particles of death stick to me. But don't they always? Living matter is formed from the dead....</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Suddenly, a hawk lands so close to us! It is viscerely alive, shocking to experience after being around the unseen fragments of former life. The hawk should be hunting, but it just watches us. We don't dare to move.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Ali speaks first, and finally his voice leans towards plaintive wisdom. "Elissa," he asks. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">"Will you show me how to write my mother's name? So I can find it when she dies?" </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Before today I may have found his question sadly strange. But now this is serious. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Statued under the hawk's hypnosis, I say, "Yes Ali, I will." I will write down all the names. Someday, every one of us will join the growing pile of dusts. How will we begin to find the ones we love?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I have to smack myself from this terrifying trance. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">As we leave, I watch the hawk watching us. It keeps watching us. Watching us until we're gone.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div></div>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-44844329336769295002009-01-13T20:11:00.000-08:002009-01-14T20:58:11.477-08:00Don't Fight It, Feel It<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I have been kind of a baddie about the blog lately. My excuse is that I was taking some classes that occupied time I would have spent writing. One of these was a writing class, and the other was an art history class. This foray into "Elissa Enlightenment" resulted in a withdrawal and a C. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So much for that. Who needs a class to reach enlightenment, anyway? <br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The writing class did produce some good writing, at least. This piece is about my recent epiphany regarding certain cultures I used to loathe, and now embrace fully. Part of it uses excerpts from my Vegas piece in the "In Sleaze I Trust" entry. But I assure you it is much shorter. That one was damn long.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The title of this entry is the title of a song from one of the best bands in the universe, Primal Scream. There are so many things we have the urge to fight against, to resist--whether it is something tangible or a state of mind. And sometimes we should. But I suggest to take a look at what you may be fighting and ask yourself--Is this worth the fight?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'll give you a little example from recent life. I work at a preschool. After the first rain, an enormous puddle formed in our play yard because the drain was clogged. We knew the two year olds in our class would want to play in the puddle. And we knew they would get soaked. Only a few had a rainboots.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We thought about tying plastic bags around their shoes. Finally I said, "Let's just take their shoes and socks off. It isn't that cold out. So what if they get wet. We'll change their clothes."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And that is exactly what we did. Don't fight it. Feel it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Teachers and children alike had the most joyous time jumping, splashing, laughing, and in some cases rolling in the puddle. Half the kids had no pants on by the end. Wonderful hilarity.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The sad part? We were the only class out of 10 that even went outside. The other teachers did not want to fight their children about going in the puddle, or have to change them afterward.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But for us, there was no fight at all....</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Enjoy the piece. Enjoy it all. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Las Vegas and Disney World</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Self-fulfillment is no longer considered selfish; it's considered spiritual." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">--The Unofficial Guide to Walt Disney World for Grown-ups</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I used to be terrified of Las Vegas and Disney World. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">How could a person possibly dread the ultimate pleasure center, or the "Happiest Place on Earth?" For me, the concern was not the place itself. It was about my reactions to them. One's identity is a process in the teens and early twenties. Part of my identity, for semi-valid reasons, was a fear of alcohol, drugs, and general losing of control. Hence, a trip to Las Vegas would be a peek into Pandora's Box. Who knows what I would find there? It would be better to never know.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My aversion to Disney World had less to do with fear and more to do with extreme loathing for all things excess, plastic, and corporate. Kind of like Santa Claus, the "magic" of Disney was real only when I was younger. Obliged to visit many times after my brother Dan went to work there when I was 20, I drove my family crazy by complaining most of the time. And even that did not ruin the magic for them.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then something happened when I turned 30. Trips to Vegas and Disney World were due, and yet I found myself surprised to be looking forward to them. What was this? Granted, there was nothing wrong with being more relaxed about things. But was losing part of who I was? I had always had an aversion to being "normal," one of the masses. If I actually enjoyed Las Vegas and Disney World, would I become....one of them?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I had been to Vegas twice before. The first time it was one of the last stops on a cross-country trip, and followed several stops at very scenic and peaceful national parks. To be affronted with the clanging noise, florid lights, and humanity at their lowest I found overwhelming and depressing. We didn’t even stay at a casino, but at the Aztec Inn. Never heard of it? Don’t bother to investigate. We did some gambling and I had enough fun, but was way too glad to leave. The second trip was a few years later with some girl friends. I had loosened up considerably and enjoyed myself more. We did more gambling, went to some bars and clubs, stayed at the Tropicana. While it was fun, I still was affronted by seeing humanity at its greediest and sleaziest. This most recent trip not only changed my view of Vegas, it kind of changed my life.</span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When my girlfriends and I landed in Vegas for my third time, we did not head right for the casinos as is expected. We hopped in a cab and headed downtown. Downtown Vegas is off the strip. I imagine people who actually live in Vegas go downtown, as do the cool kids like us wanting to do something “different.” </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Downtown has a very different feel to it than the rest of Vegas. The casinos are very old-school style, with animated neon signs rather than dancing fountains. The hotels actually look like hotels, rather than gargantuan play palaces. It is much mellower, almost like Reno--but not as sad. One of my friends thought we should check out the famous bar that most people never visit, Hogs and Heifers. It is the bar the movie "Coyote Ugly" is based on. Now how could that not pique your interest?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hogs and Heifers turned out to be one of the coolest bars I’ve ever been in, period. Big, hairy bouncers with a defined “don’t fuck with us” look bordered the door. Yet they welcomed us with a “Hi ladies, come on in!” The first thing I noticed was a sign that said “No Whining. No ties. No douchebags.” My friends had decided lately that “douchebag” was the insult of the times, so I took it as a sign we were meant to be here. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The place was huge, dark, and the patrons stood along the walls, evaluating newcomers. Some bearded daddies were playing pool and cheerfully invited us to play with them. Signed dollar bills wallpapered the ceiling, many bearing celebrity signatures. Animal heads lined the walls, and the ones above the bar were draped with hundreds of bras. A bumper sticker behind the bar said, “What Happens in Vegas Ends up on Myspace.” I loved it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The bar ladies were scantily clad, quite hot, and did indeed use megaphones. You did not mess around in there. Within a half hour of us arriving, a woman got escorted out for being too drunk and a guy for apparently being a douchebag. “Say goodbye to the asshole, everyone!” one of the bar ladies blasted through the megaphone. “Goodbye, asshole!” we all obeyed. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The stories held true, and in time the ladies jumped up on the bar and danced. And damn, they could actually dance! Afterwards I asked one of them how she does this move where her entire body vibrates. I could not understand the logistics of making your body do that. I inquired. She was very friendly and gave a demonstration. I’ll never be able to do it, but I appreciated the lesson. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I learned something from Hogs and Heifers. There is a genuine, uncorrupted side of Vegas. Sure, the bar is famous and had its shtick, yet it wasn’t gimmicky. It wasn’t showy or pretentious. You didn’t have to spend tons of money. The people there were down to earth, nice, and real. I thought about my experience at Hogs and Heifers as I feel asleep that night, and realized it was refreshing, and made me feel good about Vegas. But then I second guessed myself. Did I actually felt good about Vegas, a place I used to avoid? Did this mean I was a sell-out? I decided to wait and see what other interesting paths this trip would take before I judged myself.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The story of Disney is a bit different. Obviously, I never had to fear that Pluto was going to force me to do tequila shots. My family visited Disney World a couple of times when I was a teenager, and I was completely taken in by Disney's attempts to make me feel special. I truly saw it for a wondrous, captivating place. But when I entered college, suddenly I knew everything. Consequently, I thought many things were evil. Disney World and the Disney company were included in this. That is when my brother went to work there, and family trips started happening almost yearly. My comments during the last couple trips were along the lines of the following: "Everything here is giant and plastic! Disney is an evil corporation that runs half the world! Why can't we, like, go to another country or something for vacation? Dan, how can you work for these people?!"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My brother's response was, "Elissa, it's like being part of the magic." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He did not joke. I was certain my little brother was permanently brainwashed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Scoff if you must, and believe me, I used to. But while I do think my brother was (and still is) very cheesy, I slowly began to see his side. Disney World exists purely to make you feel good. Participating in extravagant activities not only doesn't damage you-- it can be good for you! Like Vegas, there is much to learn from these in-your-face icons of entertainment--if you have the right attitude, of course. I started to view them as a whole different culture, like how I might in a foreign country. </span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">While Vegas makes little attempt to hide its seamy side, Disney World projects itself as pure, uncorrupt goodness. You really are not allowed to have a bad time . You are pretty much guaranteed that an employee who has directed thousands of cranky kids, close-to-death grandparents, and maxed-out parents onto Space Mountain will still smile at you. You don't have to worry about a bathroom being dirty. The rare occasion that I did see a piece of trash on the ground, a "cast member" (what they call employees) dropped out of the sky to sweep it up, and he or she never failed to smile at me while doing it. As much as I might tease my brother, I had to give credit to these never-to-fail employees.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Disney World gets at the core of your emotions and sense of nostalgia. Depending on where you are in the parks, the scent of chocolate chip cookies, jasmine, or campfire smoke is being pumped at you through nearly invisible pipes. I was 14 when we first visited, and we actually got a brief private audience with Mickey Mouse. (Today you have to wait in line for hours and then have impatient guests glare at you.) Honestly, I was thrilled. And Mickey seemed genuinely as excited to see me (as excited as someone who cannot make facial expressions, that is). Even at the height of my cynicism, I really couldn't grumble at the sight of one of my favorite characters. Sometimes I would even feel tears come to my eyes! Keep it together, Elissa! I would think to myself. If you start getting emotional, that means Disney has won! When I went on this last trip, I just let the emotions happen. Why should I hold back? There is no sense in resisting the Mouse. And it felt much better not to be directing anger at a place I could never possibly change.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Vegas can bring out emotions in a person too, and not just the joy or desolation brought on by gambling. For me this happened during this most recent trip when we went to see the Cirque Du Soleil show, Ka. I am doing my best to become a connoisseur of Cirque Du Soleil. I had seen two shows that nearly made my heart explode with joy. Ka would no doubt be especially fantastic, since it is in a permanent theater. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We walked into the cavernous theater to find the space above laced with intricate passageways and cages. Giant flames spewed forth from a stageless stage area. “Oh my god, my stomach just dropped!” one of my friends gasped.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“I have goosebumps!” I exclaimed. This was the type of thing that would have made me cry from excitement when I was a child. I did so when I saw all the World Champion Ice Skaters and went to my first IMAX show. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It turns out all three of us would come close to tears several times throughout the show. Ka was the most extraordinarily over-the-top production, yet it was perfect. The stage moved all over the place, including vertically--completely. At one point it was like an enormous Plinko game, and the actors fell through pegs and dropped into the air. There was a very sweet and quiet moment when a boy and a man made shadow puppets with their hands projected onto a large screen. The animals they made had expressions, for God’s sake! </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The scene that floored me the most was when the stage became a Day-Glo colored jungle, with weird tubes and pipes and ropes dangling from the ceiling. The actors swung on “vines” doing crazy acrobatics, and gigantic puppets of snakes and insects meandered up and down the trees. The whole experience was something like an innocent, happy acid trip. I’ve heard that some kids these days like to do hallucinogens at these shows. I think if I had done that, I either would have run out screaming or tried to join the joyful jungle. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Drugs were quite unnecessary.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Although it was a totally different experience than Hogs and Heifers, it left me with a similar feeling--a positive one. You could go to Vegas and actually have uncorrupted fun. Granted, it would cost you--our tickets to Ka were $100. But it was $100 of pure psychedelic joy! The sole purpose of a Cirque show is to make you happy, to appreciate the phenomenal feats our fellow humans can accomplish. Everyone that goes to Vegas needs to see this, or something similar. Now that I had seen one of Vegas' over-blown productions, had I truly sold out? According to the old me and my old standard, maybe. But I had finally accepted that there is really no harm in that. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One way Disney World exerts its insanely positive influence is through its employees. This can show itself in bizarre and amusing ways, adding to the "cultural" experience of it all. The cast members have strict protocol hammered into them to make sure every guest feels welcome and at ease. Dan once told me that cast members are not allowed to point using one finger. If they were showing a guest where something was, they had to use two fingers. That way it did not look like the employee was pointing at someone, which contains the unthinkable possibility he or she could be poking fun at the guest. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Naturally I did not believe Dan. "Just watch!" he said one night at the Magic Kingdom. We approached a girl working at a snack stand and asked her where the closest restrooms were. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"There are right over there," she said, as she pointed the way with two fingers! I almost died.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Disney's Animal Kingdom is the most recently created park, and that is where my brother works. One time my family was admiring the tigers in their habitat made to look like the ruins of an Indian temple. There were no cast members to be seen. Suddenly one tiger swiped and roared at another. It was a very powerful and resonant sound; I felt it in my chest. The crowd gasped. As if by true magic, a young male cast member had appeared behind us and was explaining that the tigers were buddies just playing around, and absolutely no harm would befall them. Everyone looked at each other with skeptically raised eyebrows. "Where did he come from?!" I whispered to my mom. That is anyone's guess, but it was just another example of how almost nothing can go wrong at Disney. Again, this is something I used to deride, saying it was way "too perfect." While things like the two-finger point and employees falling from the sky are comical, I now see there is nothing wrong with a place that goes out of its way to make everyone feel comfortable and welcome. Indeed, it can be a welcome change to the norm.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Another reason I was once averse to Vegas and Disney World was because of the sheer sensory overload they gave me. Once you land in Vegas, there is no escaping the jangling of slot machines, the over-conditioned and smoke-saturated air, and dizzying neon lights. The sheer size of everything in Disney World is overwhelming. The hotels have monstrously huge bowling pins, movie characters, cowboy boots, or Big Wheels outside of them, depending on the theme of the hotel. The huge and frenzied crowds at Disney are the main thing that ruin it for me now. I have wanted to pull out my “I’m a mandated child abuse reporter!” a number of times upon seeing parents scream at their exhausted and overwhelmed children. While I still do not always enjoy the sensory bombardment, I have at least begun to find amusement in it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">To survive in Vegas, one must embrace the kitsch. Again, it helps to see the absurdity as culture, or even art. Take the monumental bronze of Siegfried and Roy and one of their beloved tigers, for example. It is not Andy Warhol, but does it not shock and appall--and amuse--just like a Warhol can? I have not visited it yet, but there is a “Neon Graveyard,” where all the signs of departed casinos go to rest. During my last visit to Vegas, we stayed at the Venetian. There is an actual canal in the hotel, lined with shops and even gondolas. It was pretty incredible, though I did miss the sewer smell of the real Venice. I used to deplore this fakery. Now I’ve realized I should just appreciate it for what it is--another way to make you forget about reality, and hopefully make you happier for the time being. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">While Disney World also has its share of enormous and cheesy things, there are also many minute details to be discovered. This is what separates the Disney parks from all other theme and entertainment parks. The Animal Kingdom is divided into “Continents,” including Asia and Africa. But the “continents” were actually designed and built by people native to Asia and African countries, right down to ragged posters hanging on walls. The “Himalayan” section of Asia was particularly impressive. Actual used backpacks, hiking boots, and camping gear hung from restaurant ceilings. I imagine it was like really being there, but without the fear of malaria. Tibetan prayer flags and music drifted in the breeze. The waiting area for the ride Expedition Everest was a literal museum. The ride is a roller coaster in which you encounter the (maybe) mythical Yeti. You wind through hallways with all sorts of real artifacts from Tibet and Nepal, including some "evidence" of Yeti encounters, such as giant footprint.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Every park and area has little things that contribute to this feeling of a whimsical non-reality. R2D2 is depicted in hieroglyphics in the Great Movie Ride. Two skeletons at the famed Pirates of Caribbean are huddled over a chess game. Turns out they are at a stalemate, and that is what led to their deaths. My favorite one of these is at the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror. It is a giant building that contains an elevator drop ride, and the story is that you have been transported back into a 1920's Twilight Zone episode. There is a directory of the hotel mounted in plastic on the wall in the lobby, and little plastic letters are used. If you look at the bottom of it, there are some letters that have fallen. They spell out, "DANGER. TURN BACK NOW."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Perhaps the best thing about Las Vegas and Disney World are what they have shown me about myself. I was judgmental, fearful, and naive about two places who exist only to give people an escape. Now I not only enjoy the escape, but embrace many aspects of it. A few reasons account for the change. One is simply growing up, which for me meant becoming much more relaxed about situations in which I do not have total control, such as a night out in Vegas. Another reason is after traveling to more far away and vastly diverse places, I discovered I really don't know much at all. Who I am to judge a manically happy place like Disney World, when so many people who would love to go there never will? Disney World and Las Vegas exist solely to make their visitors happier and forget about "real life" for just a little while. I can certainly use some of that in my life these days. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But Disney World and Las Vegas have more to offer than raw entertainment. There is genuine goodness, interesting things, and--dare I say--culture to them. A visitor merely has to get off the usual path or open his eyes or peek a little closer to find it. Disney and Vegas are not going to offer you the same growth a trip to Cambodia or South Africa might, but they certainly can challenge you and help you learn things about yourself--and isn’t that what every good trip should do?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am quite pleased with myself that I have embraced regression, cheesiness, excess, and plain weirdness when it comes to places I visit. I am still the same person. But I am so much happier now.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-91427845873810363272008-12-21T15:03:00.000-08:002008-12-21T15:10:48.363-08:00Methinks the Turkey Doth Protest Too Much<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">A while ago I posted a story called "Faultless Angel." I am hoping it will be a chapter in a memoir I am slowly writing about my child and teenage-hood experiences at a horse stable. In honor of the holidays, I thought I would put up this one. It is mainly about turkeys--living with them, loving them, and eating them. Hope you enjoy it, and enjoy the holidays.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“So I have some news, everybody.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Terri strolled into the aisle. Andi, Steph, and I paused with our pitchforks.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“We are getting some new Ashberry Hillians.” Ooh, this was exciting.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“A new horse?” I wondered. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Ha ha. No, thank god.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Doggie?” chirped Steph.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Nope.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Uh, more children to use as slave labor?” suggested Andi.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“I’ll give you a hint. We can eventually eat them.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Now Terri had said things in the past that hinted that she was not entirely opposed to the concept of eating people. If we have to right to eat animals, why not each other? We three girls looked at each other and then Terri with slightly fearful wondering.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Turkeys!” </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">A three way “What?!”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“The farrier shoes for a guy that has a bunch of turkey chicks and is giving some away. We are going to raise them and then eat them. As true free-range turkeys!”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">The concept of free range was fairly new back then, and I wasn’t quite sure of the meaning. We were all curious about the pet then food creatures that were about become part of our semi-functional family, and thus the topic for the day’s tack room talk was provided.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“So what does free range mean anyway?” I asked, foaming up the scrubby sponge with glycerin. I pictured a gang of turkeys cruising the hills in ATVs.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“It means the turkeys or chickens are free to walk around and not be stuffed into cages smaller than themselves with their beaks cut off.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Steph looked up from her furtive scrubbing. “Is that what happens?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Oh yeah, you didn’t know that?” Terri responded calmly, wrapping up Court’s bridle. “That along with pumping them full of chemicals and antibiotics. “The free range ones are free of that too.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">I looked at my lunch bag that had a turkey sandwich in it and frowned. Suddenly I wasn’t in such a hurry to finish my tack and eat.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Are there free range cows too?” Andi wondered.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Well, believe it or not, beef cows don’t have that bad of a life,” Terri answered as she started on the short black dressage girth. “They get to wander around a bit. It’s the milk cows that have the living hell. They’re impregnated again and again, and are forced to stand still all day. Then of course their babies are killed for veal. So yes, you can buy cruelty free milk these days.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“GOD, Terri, are you trying to make me VOMIT!” Steph exclaimed, foam flying from the sponge in her emphatically gesturing hands.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“How do you know this is all true anyway?” I asked. I always assume Terri is right, but why should I? Even though she almost always is.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Terri smiled that annoying half smile when she knows she is correct. “Jenny told me, and I’ve read about it in magazines. Think about it. Meat is processed in mass quantities for the public. What other way could it be done?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">We were contemplating and silent for a moment. Then Steph tosses her hair back and proclaims, “Well, I’m becoming a vegetarian! Right now!”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Don’t do that!” Terri said. “You have to help eat our new pets!”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">I cracked up. “Terri!” chided Andi. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Tack finished, we opened our lunches. Steph contemplated her ham sandwich, and decided to become a vegetarian tomorrow.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">A couple days later our new fowl friends arrived. You would have thought a celebrity was coming. “The turkeys are coming, the turkeys are coming!” Steph was exuberantly shouting all day. Andi and I shook our heads and laughed, not exactly sharing her enthusiasm. I loved all animals, even slimies and scalies. But I was never really into birds. They made annoying noise, you couldn’t really pet them, and they got feathers everywhere. But the turkeys would be a diversion. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Here comes Thanksgiving dinner!” Junior strolled down the driveway, carrying five turkey chicks in a grate. We had prepared the old rabbit hutch for them. Everyone put down their pitchforks and hoses to greet the newcomers. I must say, they were halfway cute. They were certainly much bigger than chicken chicks, and covered in gray downy feathers. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Oh, I LOVE them!” squealed Steph. “Are we really going to eat them?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Wait ‘till they get bigger,” laughed Junior. “They won’t be so cute, and these suckers can be mean! You may change your mind.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">We barely heard him over our cooing. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Ok, men,” Terri commanded. “Time for Operation Move the Turkeys.” We tried just opening the crate door and holding it up to the hutch, but they wouldn’t go in. Not a good start in terms of proving their intelligence. We ended up having to reach in and manually put them in. I was scared they would peck me, so opted to watch. It was all Steph could do to keep from kissing them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Our turkeys grew quite fast. Shortly, they were “teenagers,” and we were able to distinguish them from each other. We had two females and three males. The males’ pulpy wattles were starting to show, the downy feathers were replaced with silky dark ones, and their talons more dangerous looking. Despite the “don’t name an animal you’re going to eat” credo, we wanted to. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Terri, Steph, Andi, Pam, and I peered into the hutch. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“That one guy is really big,” noted Andi.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Pam and I were currently studying English literature in school, and had a certain playwright on the brain. “How about…Shakespeare?” I suggested. The others nodded thoughtfully.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Well then, naturally the others should be Shakespeare characters,” said Pam.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Macbeth!” I yelled, my favorite Shakespeare play.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Hamlet was from Shakespeare, right?” asked Terri.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Indeed,” said Andi. “And they both die horrible bloody deaths. It’s fitting.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">So there were our tragic male turkeys. Steph seemed to have a bond with the two females, so we left the naming of them to her. We let the turkeys walk around loose during the day, and Steph could often be patting and speaking lovingly to them. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">The next day I was cleaning out the shed row when I heard Steph’s unmistakable undulating voice. I walked around the corner and saw her kneeling near the two females, who were pecking the ground without any notice of Steph.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Oh Thoughtful, you’re so beautiful and so nice! Curiosity, did you find some food? Oh yum yum! You are such WONderful turkeys!” </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">I really tried to hold it in, but an explosion of laughter burst from me. “Thoughtful? Curiosity? Ahem.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Steph stood up, completely unbothered by my outburst. “Hi Lissa! Yes, meet the two loveliest turkeys in the world, Thoughtful and Curiosity.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">By now Terri and Andi had approached, smiling widely. “And how did you bestow such names upon them, dear Steph?” Andi asked.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Well, Thoughtful is just that--very thoughtful and nice. She likes to be patted, and she genuinely enjoys the company of people. And Curiosity isn’t quite as affectionate, but she just loves to explore! Aren’t they WONderful?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">We had trouble hearing the end of her description as we were doubled over laughing. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Oh Steph!” gasped Terri. “You are amazing.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">But Steph truly was amazing. No one else would take the time to examine the personality traits of these seemingly simple creatures. We may have laughed, but Steph was to be admired.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Shakespeare and company continued to grow. Their size and stature became quite impressive, particularly the males. We all remember making turkeys using our hands in kindergarten, and then using different colors for the feathers. At first glance turkey feathers look black. But when the light hits them, they take on a beautiful iridescent quality. Shades of green, orange, and burgundy appear. Their wattles were red pulpy lumps of a plasticky looking substance. One weird wattle hung over the large curved beak, and they could bring it in or let it hang down. Pretty gross. What I found most intriguing about the turkeys were their talons. They were huge, with flesh colored scales and monstrous nails. Jurassic Park had come out recently, and every time I looked at the turkey feet all I could picture were the raptors' killer claws. Take one look at turkey legs and tell me birds aren’t descended from dinosaurs. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">One day I noticed we were down a bird. I knew the answer, but I asked Terri what happened to Macbeth. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“He’s in the fridge. Want to try him? He‘s quite tasty!”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">I cringed inwardly, but only for a second. “Yeah, why not? It will be my first free range turkey!”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">We went into the house and Terri pulled a half eaten carcass out of the fridge. It was a little strange to think this was once Macbeth, but I got over it. He was tasty, leaner and healthier seeming than most turkeys you eat. And hell, he had a good life. Better than most poultry. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Junior hunted, so the idea of raising animals for food was nothing bothersome to them. The first time I went into Terri’s house I started at the sight of a giant buck head bolted to the wall. “Oh that’s Rudolph,” Junior joked. “He missed the roof and ended up crashing through the wall!” I laughed weakly, not quite used to the idea of hunting yet.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Terri often talked about the hypocrisy she and Junior faced when people brought up hunting. (Hunting for sport and food as opposed to trophy hunting or illegal poaching, which of course we were all against.) “How can kill such a beautiful animal?” Terri would mock about people referring to deer hunting. “Yeah, enjoy your prime rib and fur jacket!” Terri wanted to yell back. I used to be one of “those people“, but Terri did get me thinking about it. It was one thing to decry hunting if you were a strict vegan, but most people against hunting are not. After the horrid stories were heard about the poultry and dairy farms, a hunted deer, duck, or rabbit’s life and death didn’t seem so bad. You have a normal peaceful life, and then you are killed instantly (hopefully) and that’s it. It’s quite different than being stuffed in a containing device, force fed and injected with antibiotics, and unwillingly made to watch your companions die. Terri also said conscientious, responsible hunters like Junior and his friends knew more about nature than most and made regular contributions to wildlife associations. Indeed, the majority of us wrapped up in our happy hypocrisy do more damage to animal life that many hunters do. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">The unusual rapport between Steph and Thoughtful and Curiosity continued for a while, although I believed it was pretty one sided. I will admit Thoughtful did seem nicer than the other turkeys. By that I mean she didn’t regularly try to attack you. Curiosity on the other hand, was a total bitch. While you were minding your own business cleaning stalls or something, her ugly face suddenly became florid and she started making this eerie “wooo, wooo” noise. That meant you were in trouble. She would proceed to the nearest life form and start barbarously pecking at it! One may find it ridiculous to be scared by a turkey, but it hurt. And it prevented work from being done.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">One day I was sick of being harassed by Curiosity. I lamented to Terri about my fear of dismemberment by peck. Terri simply said, “Show her who’s boss. You’re bigger than her!” I interpreted this as do what I feel is necessary, and returned to cleaning the shed row.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Soon enough, I heard it. The trilly “wooo wooo!” Curiosity approached, her vulture like countenance and vapid eyes fixated on my calves. I glanced at the rake in my hand, suddenly no longer a common farm tool but a weapon against the ravages of barn fowl. I pushed her away with the rake. Unfazed, she returned. Pushed again. Same reaction. This time, I gently hit her with the flat side. Didn’t faze her a bit! If anything, she came back with more bravura. I hit her not-so-gently this time, and the thing acted as if nothing happened. Was she a masochist or something? Basically, I ended up whacking this turkey with the rake a number of times before she finally gave up. I stood there for a moment, feeling proud that I dominated over this relentless creature. Then guilt melted over me as I realized I had just committed animal abuse. I waved it away. Curiosity was not hurt, and the bitch deserved it. My calves were safe. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Steph took her love of the turkeys too far one day. (Though it was always too far in my opinion.) We were cleaning the indoor stalls when we heard Steph’s voice rising in a crescendo: “Oh my God. OH MY GOD!” She came running into the aisle. “Thoughtful…Thoughtful BIT me!!” I stepped out of the stall, and sure enough there was a red mark on her cheek! And she looked like her feelings were truly hurt. Terri’s response was the usual: to start laughing uncontrollably. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“HA HA HA! Oh my god Steph!” she gasped, then mimed kissing someone.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Andi was laughing harder than her mellow self. “Steph, why on Earth would you try to kiss a turkey?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Steph continued to look betrayed. “I just thought were had a bond, I…hey! I wasn’t trying to KISS her!” Round of laughter again.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">I breathed deeply, trying to compose myself. “Then how did she peck you on the cheek?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“I was just talking to her!” Suddenly her expression changed. “Hmmf! Junior was right! Turkeys are evil. Kill them now!” </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Another explosion of laughter ensued until we were exhausted. Terri said, “Well, Steph, sounds like Thoughtful is no longer thoughtful.” </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Yeah,” said Andi. “A more appropriate name would be…Hateful!”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“Perfect!” agreed Steph, rubbing her hands together and that occasional maniacal look appearing in her eyes.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">“And Curiosity can be Furiosity!” shouted Terri. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Steph steered clear of the newly dubbed birds for the rest of their lives. Incidentally, Steph did become a vegetarian of sorts for a while. She continued to turkey--with uninhibited abandon, as if enacting revenge each time.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Hamlet and Macbeth were the only turkeys that met their demise by consumption. We discovered Furiosity dead in the hutch one day. She always looked like she was pecked on by the others. Maybe she met her karmic fate.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Poor Thoughtful/Hateful had a sad ending. Taking her free range status to the max, she ended up wandering into the woods and coming back every once in a while for food. Once she was gone for a week, and we thought she had been killed by a coyote or something. But then she wandered back in, looking as delirious as a turkey possibly can. She smelled terrible, and Terri theorized she had been sitting on rotten eggs. Terri and Karen tried pouring water down her throat, but she still died. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Shakespeare ended up living for over a year, and became our mascot of sorts. He was huge, and a true poster turkey for Thanksgiving paraphernalia. One could see him proudly strutting around, fanning his feathers and making this funny snorting sound. Shakespeare was rather amusing, as he would gobble every time I sneezed. He was fairly cool, and you could touch his weird wrinkly head and silky feathers without him biting. The only things he tried to attack (and he was too big to move fast) were the blue manure bucket and my blue raincoat. Somehow blue must have equated with other male turkeys in his little mind. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Alas, fat turkeys are not meant to have long lives, and eventually his legs gave out. We kept him around for a little bit and brought food to him, but it seemed an uncomfortable and undignified life. Eventually one of the vets put him to sleep and we buried him. Terri and the rest of us didn’t want to eat our mascot. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">As much smack talking as I may have done about the turkeys, there were fun to have around. And it was a change to see animals usually used for meat getting a chance to live a "normal" life, even if we did eat a couple of them. Towards the end of the "turkey era," Terri and Karen were seen dancing around them and singing, "We had joy, we had fun, we had good times in the sun..."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);">Of course, no one experienced the range of emotions a turkey can put one through as much as Steph.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-12603372609921621282008-10-12T18:13:00.000-07:002008-10-12T18:34:15.389-07:00Mono Lake Series<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">For a couple years now, I have had the </span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">privilege of visiting one of the most special places in the world: Mono Lake. Mono Lake is an unusual lake in the high desert of Lee Vining, CA, east of Yosemite Park. It made such an impression on me I wrote three poems about it. You maybe wondering what makes it so unique. The poems give you an idea of its qualities, but I encourage you to check out monolake.org and learn for yourself. Better yet, visit Mono Lake!</span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">These poems involve three very different experiences there, which depended on the time of year it was and the weather. Hope you like them and the pictures.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Mono Swim 8/20/07</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The landscape: Mars, 10,000 years ago.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My feet hesitate at the edge of a brackish lake. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">There are three reasons to stay out: prickly salt in eyes, clouds of crevice-finding brine shrimp, thousands of flies gliding on surface. No, millions of flies.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And then there is one reason to go in: why not.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The flies are uninterested in me, and kindly part. My pallid legs swirl saline and fresh water into a glassy oilyness. I am intrigued.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">At first, some fear. The brine shrimp--will they go places they shouldn’t? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But soon, acceptance. And even enjoyment. I swim through thousands of tiny feather dusters.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I look closer at these Sea Monkey cousins. “They’re either mating or dead,” I tell my companion.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“Maybe it will bring us good mojo.” Maybe.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I watch the shrimp swarming me, curious of my flesh. Is it wrong to like this?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Finally my feet pedal without touching the sand. It is effortless; I walk in space.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The utter nowness of it: me, the muted colors, the creatures, the salt. I run in water, in absolute silent peace.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When I exit, the water leaves quickly but the salt stays. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I sit and draw pictures on my skin. Uncomfortable and content.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Soon my friend leads us to a thankful creek.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I plunge myself into the river animal’s innards, freeing myself from saline prison. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Giggle, shiver, gasp. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Clutch my face and think:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">To Whatever there is. Thank you. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Mono Wade 6/10/08</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">This time it is different.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It is early summer, a season confused. The solar broiler is on high during the day, but nighttime still requires a hat.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The grasses and willows have yet to be burnt into submission. Soft and green, they caress my legs on the pilgrimage down to the beach.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We wade through Mono's ghost on this walk--the lake used to be here. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A skeleton of a boat parts the fragrant sage. It will never again feel water on its bones.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Now we reach the living body of Mono. My body pulses with the eager memory of last year's swim. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">At once I see the lake is not the glassy blue I remember. It is a vivid living green.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I hesitate to go in this time. The memory is tainted with a bloom of algae. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Pacing the shore like a distraught animal, my feet make a </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">brrr brrr</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> sound on the salty flats. We're on a giant crème Brule. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My friend enters smiling, not having the mental block against the strange floating flora that I do. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I get over myself and gingerly paw into the water. But where are my feather duster friends, the shrimp?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Oh, it's too early for them," says my friend. That is why there is so much algae--no shrimp to feast on it!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I try to bury the wish for the Mono Lake of my last summer's swim, and enjoy the lake for what it is right now: A being early in its life cycle, waiting for consumption and copulating to happen within its arms.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The algae is beautiful in its own slimy and virid way, while it is in the water. I watch it swirl around my arm when I make a whirlpool. But lift it out, and algae becomes a shameless lump of goo. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Moral of the story? Be mindful of your memory of the future.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I have to give credit to </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Deep Survival</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> author Laurence Gonzales for the concept of the "memory of the future." It is basically another way of saying anticipation. What drives us to do something (usually) pleasurable is "remembering" how we will feel afterwards. But sometimes these "memories" are not always accurate, and lead us to disappointment or even danger.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Mono Surf 9/4/08</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">End of summer at last! Now my alkali friend will be swimable. Free of algae, filled with shrimp. (I realize my preferences are a bit backwards from most.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">This time my companion, a connoisseur of skinny dip spots, leads me to the north end of the lake. We hike through scratchy brush and skeletal plants hibernating in the heat. Damn me for wearing shorts.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We are blasted by hot, sand speckled wind. This is not a very fun walk. But I see our reward ahead--Mono Lake, perfect sky blue with calligraphy lines of white throughout. And a new surprise. Whitecaps.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">This is the alonest spot we’ve attempted yet. Only the gulls and sandpipers can glare at our nakedness. I am not worried. No other humans will come here.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">There is no hesitation this time. The perky waves of coolness feel too good on my </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">skin. For the first time ever, I get my whole body wet before my friend.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And now I float on waves! Real, ocean-inspired waves live on Mono Lake this day. I am back home, swimming in Cape Cod again. Completely buoyant. Mono Lake holds me and bounces me like an infant.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Laughing out loud does bring drawbacks in the form of a mouthful of Mono water. I splat it out, thinking of it as a salt and baking soda gargle. It also stings into my eyes, and pretty much every other mucus membrane. But so what! It is too joyous to matter.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We last long this time, leaving only after our salted eyes could take no more. We wash off in the fresh water river and leave our briny friend until next year.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Walking back, I feel dopey, drunk almost. Refreshed and happily drained. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We have been baptized in the name of rollicking happiness. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"> </span></span></div>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-80630573320343172002008-08-17T18:31:00.000-07:002008-08-17T18:43:56.369-07:00Poems About Invertebrates<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">That is exactly what this is. I like creepy, crawly, and slimey creatures, what can I say?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I am inspired to show these poems because of what covered Ocean Beach the other day: hundreds of giant dead jellyfish. I think it happens once a year here. They were in the water, on the sand, everywhere. People and dogs eyed the purplish blobs with wary interest. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">The first poem is an earlier one, from 2001. It concerns the same phenomenon, except that time they were tiny jellyfish. The second poem is from a more recent experience concerning a slightly more popular creature: butterflies. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Enjoy and enjoy the rest of the summer. It sure went fast...sigh...</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Small Death</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">The day sparkles violently; thrashing foam and glinty sand hit my eyes.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Coins of perfect clear appear under my feet.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Closer perusement reveals pellucid blobs, lying calm on the sand.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">It is an unearthly creature in water: half-fluid, it undulates with grace no land walker </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">could achieve.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">But here small shards of rock and screeching sun slowly east the fluidity out of underwater life.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">There is no jealousy of the creature in death. Thinned-out, its tentacles grip the sand with rigormortis strength, and organs are frozen in crystal clear gelatin.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Expecting jelly-softness, my reaching hand finds a firmly swollen body, turgid and unnatural.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Not all lie dead. One pulses with minute life, its hydrozoic heart beating, hoping for water.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">I help the slippery life meet an unfurling wave. An act of kindness? A sandpiper eats it promptly, or the ambivalent surf rips its dying body, most likely.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">But maybe the being softens into full life, and enters the shallows that can become so saturated with small spheres it is like swimming in tapioca. Out of my body and clothes I step into such a sea.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">Both of us free from burning land, I watch the embryonic form pulsate with rapture that comes with reinvented life. It gulps sweet saltwater and receives electric life force through the tentacles of others that stroke their found companion. The tentacles also find me. They do not sting; they are feathers that constantly caress.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">When I return, I walk without disturbing the mass grave. It is just small death, melting.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Second Communion</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">At the gardens. Outside air is perfect-fresh, yet I choose damp imprisonment.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Into the Palm House.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">It rains in here. Full and torpid drips splat my head.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Trees grow in this House. Not all friendly, some are stoically barbed. Others have obscenely large leaves, pornographically colored flowers.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">How are they? Forced to grow up quickly and never having seen the outside, except as a faint glow behind opaque walls? Frustrated, wanton, passive survivors.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Though I admire these quiet beasts, I am not visiting them. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Breeze through the orchids with their drooping doughty faces. They implore why I slight them.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Finally permeate through a membrane of heavy plastic strips into...the Butterfly Room.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Initially just more plants. But small ambushes of flying color appear in the peripherals. And I am surrounded by the plants' distant rootless cousins.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Lepidoptera lights the clingy air with a myriad of wings. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Oval Zebras are lambent over little blue flowers. Red Admirals lope heavily in the air.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">They are a happiness to watch. But watching is not enough. I need them to feel me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">You are not supposed to touch butterflies. Their fragile wings can crumble on our crude hands; their tasters can clog up with our distasteful oils. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">But I am selfish.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">A group of white flowers are popular with some Julia Longwings. I repent down to my knees and breathe closely. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Black veins slice through the Julia's orange sails. Their eyes are convex orbs, white stones in a burgundy pond. Proboscises dip into consenting pistils. I need them to see me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">The Julia's come very close, but do not land on my perfect blue flower-colored shirt. Coerciveness becomes a necessity. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">There are a number of butterflies gathered at the window. While it seems obvious to anyone they are trying to escape, a docent explains they are simply attracted to the light. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Really? Then again, they were born in here. How is it to want something you don't even know exists? What do we want that we don't even know about...yet?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">I approach the placid prisoners, and try to coax some Monarchs onto my finger. My encroachment brings wing pounding protest.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Then I see many of these butterflies’ dusty appendages are battered. Suddenly I feel guilty, a supporter of ignorant imprisonment.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">My shame is silent, and I almost abort my misguided mission. But then I see him.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">A Buckeye is quiet against the wall. He catches my eye with his many blue-tinged fake ones. I move closer, and he does not move at all.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">My Buckeye's body is thicker and hairier than the others'. His black proboscis whorls in a perfect coil. He is magnificent, and a little aggressive looking. I am kind of afraid of him. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">But I see an opportunity.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">My hand is now right by his legs, and I gingerly move myself under him. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Unperturbed, he climbs onto my finger! </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Shakingly slow, my hand moves towards my eyes. His sticker-legs are Velcroed onto me. His eye is a liquid black world. He unfurls his proboscis and probes me; the tiniest feather on my skin.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">I literally cannot believe that I hurt him. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">I am blessed for an eternal minute, and then he flies. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Exhale, smacked dumb with this new experience. The greenhouse world descends on me violently. Feverish droplets clog my bronchi. My thighs stick together in an ugly way. Rush towards the exit, ignore the plants' pleading leaves. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Outside, I eat the raw air. And think. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);"> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">I had a first communion once. I recall stuffy air, stiff dress, stifled senses, formalized ritual. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">I do not recall God.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">And this very recent moment in the butterfly house? Air moist with life, easy clothes, jolted senses, the freedom to be there or not.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">The question is not whether or not God exists.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">The question is: </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);">Was God in that moment?</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-10419429378669523332008-07-29T16:46:00.000-07:002008-07-31T16:02:44.236-07:00"Everywhere I Look, There is God"<span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">This wise and beautiful statement was not made by anyone famous. It was made by Marc, a five year old in my class a couple of years ago. Every year I ask my kids to draw their own interpretations of God, making sure they know there is no wrong way and they can believe whatever they want. I have seen a person with a heart shaped head, clouds, monsters, burning buildings, nebulous light, and a picture of "God inside of me." My point is that God is indeed open to interpretation.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">I also like the band Neutral Milk Hotel's take on the subject: "God is the place you will wait for the rest of your life."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">As for me? I don't even know if I believe in God. Or gods. Or anything. I certainly have mixed, mostly not too fond feelings for most religions. But that is a whole other thing I won't get into now. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">It may sound cheesy, but the closest way I can describe how I interpret God is as the Force from Star Wars. An all pervading energy that exists in every living thing and everywhere in the universe.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">(You may be interested to know that Jedi is an actual religion in Britain! My Scottish friend Andy told me enough people wrote in "Jedi" on the Census that it became an official religion.)</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">What I do believe is that God, or the Force, or whatever there may be, certainly exists in certain </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">moments.</span><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> We have a great book at school called </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">Where is God?</span><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> that talks about all the places one could find God--at the beginning and end of someone's life, in hugs, tears, enjoying nature, etc. I agree with most of the moments, and I have had my share of them as well. For me they tend towards being out in nature. For example, one time while hiking in the Sierras, a little snake came slithering across a pond right up to me and my friend Anna. I swear it was looking right at us, completely unafraid. Another time I was "baptized" by a very powerful waterfall in New Zealand. It was kind of scary, but I felt insanely happy and refreshed afterwards. So many other moments could have a trace of God in them--being swept up in the energy of a concert, running a marathon, teaching someone something....it all depends on what it could mean for you. Think about it, regardless of your relgious beliefs or non-beliefs. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">I am casually working on a novel. It will hopefully be a memoir of my childhood spent literally at a barn with horses and all sorts of fascinating people who strongly influenced my life. Here I present one of the chapters to the public (well, whoever reads this) for the first time. Ashberry Hill, mentioned in the chapter, is the name of the barn. Any strange names like "Tango" you come across refer to horses. Terri is the owner of the barn and our instructor. Andi and Cathy were other girls who rode there, slightly older than me. Jenny is our vet. Arthur and Aurora are younger students. Dan and Em are my brother and sister. Hopefully everything makes sense.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">The chapter focuses on a moment I was certain God or the Force was present, more that almost any other in my life. Enjoy, and I'd love any feedback. </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">Faultless Angel</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> The name was perfect. For that is exactly what she was. Sure, Faultless grinded her teeth when you brushed her, giving her the appearance of a grumpy old lady. But really, what else could you find wrong about this many miled equine?</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Faultless had jumped countless obstacles in hunter-jumper competitions; ran hundreds of miles in competitive trails.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> She had been many a child's and adult's first horse they ever rode, and given them the confidence to continue. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> She had patiently endured heavier people awkwardly learning to post, put up with scared children unnecessarily pulling on her mouth.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> She was the horse that got my mom to try riding again.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Faultless had never spooked, never ran away with anyone, never bucked or reared. The one "vice" she had was taking off at full gallop and soaring over a jump placed in front of her. Or even a ground pole. It was an amusing trick to play on unwary passengers. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Faultless was Grandma. She was Autumn's first companion. She was Grandma like Tango was Grandpa. She was part of the Ashberry Hill permanent family, part of what made us US.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> And she was dying.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Terri had "retired" Faultless--stopped using her for riding--about a year ago. Since then, she had enjoyed a peaceful and easy existence hanging out with Autumn and Tango. We brushed her in our spare time, and gave her treats. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> But then we noticed the change. Terri increased her food, wet it so she didn't have to chew, but weight wouldn't stay on her. She didn't bother to swish away flies. Her eyes looked duller. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> One day Jenny was here giving some routine shots to other horses. Terri had Jenny take a look at Faultless. Aurora and I were cleaning tack as this happened. Steph walked in and said, "Is something wrong with Faultless? Why is Jenny examining her?"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> "You know, Terri said was getting really thin and stuff," I replied. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> "I know the real reason," said Aurora rather precociously. We looked at her, asking silently. "Mom is deciding if Faultless should be put to sleep or not." </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Steph gasped. "Don't say that! There is nothing wrong with her!" Yet Steph's eyes showed doubt. I wanted to shout at Aurora too, but had been thinking the same thing. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> "Everyone gets old and dies," said Aurora, calmly cleaning her bridle. “It’s sad, but it’s part of life.” I admired Aurora's matter of factness about the situation. I guessed that is what happens when you grow up a veterinarian's kid. We continued cleaning tack silently. A ball of anxious unhappiness started forming in my guts.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Evening. Diffused yellow light, warm breeze. Terri, Andi, and I sat on hay bales. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. “What’s going to happen with Faultless?!” I blurted, not hiding the emotion like I had planned.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Terri calmly looked at me. “Nothing,” she replied, smiling. I frowned. Maybe she didn’t know what I was talking about.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “But...wasn’t Jenny looking at her to see if...she should be...you know...”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “Put to sleep?” Andi finished for me tentatively.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “I knew Faultless was coming near the end of her life,” Terri said. “I wanted to make sure she wasn’t in any pain. And Jenny said she wasn’t. Technically, there is nothing wrong with her. She’s just...old.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “So we’re not putting her to sleep,” I stated, internal tensions relaxing.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “No, we’re not. Faultless is not in pain or sick. She is dying. We are going to allow her to die.” Terri did not seem to be in any distress about this.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “But isn’t it almost better to put her to sleep?” Andi asked. “Then she can just die peacefully, and...we can know when it will happen?” Andi's face was a worried question mark.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “That is what I was thinking before I talked to Jenny,” said Terri. “But Jenny and I started talking about Faultless’ life. That horse has done so much! Who are we to decide when her life ends? We don’t do that to people. Imagine if someone said, ’Ok Grandma, time to die! Goodbye!’” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Andi and I laughed despite the morbidity of the idea. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “Jenny said Faultless deserves the dignity of a normal death,” Terri continued. “And that is what we will give her.”</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> As I sat in my pink beanbag that evening, thoughts of Faultless, death, and the bizarre notion of choosing when someone’s life should end kept distracting me from my book. I had not yet experienced the natural death of a horse. Pasha’s untimely one was a horrid shock. He had to be put down; there was no question. Dead gerbils and hamsters had been discovered in their cages by me and Dan and Em, always an unpleasant surprise. But a horse, who we sometimes call our children, just dying? I wasn’t sure if this really was better than her being put to sleep. For me, at least. Would we see her die? What would it look like? The idea of seeing anything dead was scary, but something the size of horse as dead ran into terrifying territory. But for Faultless, I did agree with Terri and Jenny that a dignified death was the least we could allow her.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Faultless’ condition remained the same over the next couple weeks. My fear of her suddenly dropping dead eased somewhat. But the knowledge that it would happen soon seeped into everyone's thoughts and conversations, at the barn and at home.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> As we were cleaning stalls on a Saturday morning, Andi put down her pitchfork and addressed anyone who could hear.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “You know, it is really weird!”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “What?” I asked.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “The whole concept of putting an animal to sleep. I mean, even the wording. You’re not letting them 'sleep'. You’re...killing them!”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> I stepped out so we could see each other. “It’s true. But I mean, sometimes it is better to put down an animal. Like with Pasha.” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “Yeah, but Terri said there are a lot of barns that just put down horses because they can’t be ridden anymore. And that happens with race horses all the time.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “It’s true,” I said thoughtfully. “Terri always says how lucky Bay is.” It is a known fact that Bay would have been considered damaged goods and a finacial drain anywhere else. He would be long dead most places. “Those places are so messed up!” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Terri walked into our conversation. “It’s easy to label such places as cheap or evil. But usually, these people love their horses. Most likely they were heartbroken as their horse was injected. They just believed they were doing the “kind” thing. But is the kind thing to do always the right thing to do?”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Andi and I sighed, and continued picking out stalls. I had a momentary panic that someday I would have to make a life or death decision for a living creature, and not have the guiding wisdom of people like Jenny and Terri. I silently thanked God for still being young and immature.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Later that week, on a trail ride after school. Horses on the buckle, striding eagerly towards home from the pond. I grabbed at leaves, starting to turn tapestries of colors before they became brittle and fell. Terri was in one of her provocative question moods.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> She turned around on Court, who was in the lead as always. “Would you risk your own life to save another person’s?”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “Depends who it is,” said Andi, in the middle on Spidey. “Someone in my family, or one of my good friends, yes. One of the bitchy popular girls at school, probably not.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> I laughed. “Yeah, same with me.” Of course, I couldn’t comprehend what a situation like that would be like. I thought of myself of particularly moral, especially in the junior high years.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Terri stayed facing us, and smiled the slightly evil smile. “Now what if it was an animal? A pet or horse that you really love?”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “Hmm” pondered Andi. “You know, I think I would. I definitely would for Spidey,” she said as she patted him. “Would you?” I was always glad when someone asked Terri’s questions back at her.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “Not for any animal, but for someone like Court, I think so. You mentioned family, Andi, and our horses are like our family. There is no rule that says human life is more valuable. That is something we have decided.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “You’re right!” I said. How does Terri think of these things? I always wished I had thought of them first. “It’s like we humans think we’re gods or something!”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “And it is kind of like we’re playing god when we put animals to sleep,” Andi said. God, what a confused species we were. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> That night, Dan, Em, and I bounced on the trampoline under twilight. The bats flitted and chirped above us, gulping mosquitos. I decided to try out those questions on them. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “Would you save an animal’s life, even if you might die?” I asked panting, jumping and landing on my knees.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “Yes!” shouted Dan. “I could never let Heidi die. Right, Heidi?” he said to Heidi’s freckled face watching us through the window.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “Yeah me too!” I gasped as I ran around the edge of the trampoline and collapsed in the middle. Emile narrowly missed me as she finished a flip. “Em?” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Emilie let herself plop down, bouncing to stillness. “No,” she shrugged. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “Why not? You think humans are better than animals? Well, we’re really not! We just think we’re God or something!” Self-righteousness barreled through me.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> “Yeah, we’re animals too,” said Dan, also sitting down. “We just think we’re the smartest. But who knows! Maybe we’re not.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Emilie simply replied, “I’m just not like you people.” I did not have the will to push my beliefs. And we all silently contemplated the darkening sky. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Now that I’m older and very slightly wiser, I’m more in the league with my sister. I do still believe humanity in general sees itself despots to the planet. I don’t usually believe one life is more deserving to live than another. But I’m sure my family or other loved ones would be pretty pissed if I sacrificed myself to save an animal, even a beloved one. Have I become more selfish? Perhaps. Having now experienced the death of humans close to me, I have realized that life is a near death experience for all of us, at every moment.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> The following Saturday seemed perfectly normal. Stalls, ride, hay, water tubs. As I was filling the small paddock tub, thinking about not much, Andi came by to put Panga out. "Faultless is out of her stall," she casually mentioned. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Okay...I thought, not sure why she told me. Then I realized that we always left her door open because she never left. But now she had! This was weird. I went down to the barn to investigate.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Sure enough, Faultless was standing outside of Feather's stall. It occured to me how amazingly ancient she looked. Her broad ribcage pressed up against loose skin. She was fuzzy even though it was summer, never having shed her winter coat. She barely had a mane or tail to speak of. Her eyes were tired, yet still wise and calm. And she carried herself with a resolute dignity.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Faultless stood there for a while. Was she saying something to Feather? Then with creaking joints she turned and faced down the aisle. And a minute later, as if she had unlimited time, walked down the aisle.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Arthur had been sitting on the bench and jumped up shouting, "Faultless! She's loose, she's coming this way!" I couldn't help but laugh at him, as Faultless was not exactly charging out of control. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Terri barely glanced at her. "She's fine. Let her be." And continued brushing Court.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> I watched Faultless. What would she do now? I had a feeling she would stop at the end of the aisle. And sure enough she did. Faultless stood there for a while, perhaps communing with Court, Spider, and the others. She turned in a 360 degree circle, taking almost a half hour. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> And so this continued. Faultless went to the shed row next, near Dallas, Paradox, and Autumn. I sensed something way bigger than me, way more than I might understand, was going on. Rather numbly, I filled up water tubs and put hay out. Terri and the others went out on a ride. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Cathy and I were the only ones there. It was uncomfortably quiet. I wished for anyone else to be there. I would have even welcomed Arthur swinging on the crossties. From the mares' paddock, I could see into the shed row. Faultless was ambling towards her stall. Then with trembling care, she lied down. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> For once I wished there was more to do, but all was left was sweeping the aisle. I did so roboticly, wanting and not wanting to know what was happening in Faultless' stall.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> I didn't have to wait much longer. Cathy walked in. "I think Faultless is dying."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">Was I afraid? Of course. I had never seen anything more than an insect die in front of me. But I had to look. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Faultless' entire body twitched and convulsed, and she took gulping breaths. Already her eyes were glazing over. Yet I didn't get the feeling she was in any pain. The strange behavior she showed all day was confirmed--she was saying goodbye.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> I surprised myself at how unafraid I was. Faultess was probably not afraid. She was surrounded by those who loved her, she got to say goodbye--isn't that what we all want when it's our turn to go?</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Suddenly I remembered I was supposed to put Paradox out. I knew Faultless would die any moment. Should I stay and watch? I decided not to. And honestly, I regret it. What a powerful and honored moment to see a living being's last breath...</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Faultless was dead when I came back. Cathy was still standing there. There was no question that she could be sleeping--such a stillness in death. Her eyes were empty. It was just a body, no longer Faultless. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Just then the rest of the group came back. I hung back, and Cathy told them the news. A collective sad sigh came from them. All of a sudden I was hit by an onslaught of memories. Faultless befriending Autumn back at Withington's. My mom and I riding Faultless and Autumn together. Me riding Faultless in a spectator class at a 4-H show, as she calmly trotted around the ring as if a show was nothing. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> I sank back against the wall of the shed row and started crying. A friend of many years was gone. Strangely, this was not the usual gasping cry of grief. Of course I was upset, yet I also felt a relieved peace. We had allowed her a natural death. There was an aching beauty to it. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> At the end of the day, we talked about Faultless' last journey and her amazing life. We were quiet, and sadly smiling.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> I didn't realize back then what a gift it was to have compassionate, wise adults like Jenny and Terri in our lives. But I never forget it now. If they had decided to put Faultless to sleep, she would not have had the chance to say goodbye--for I do truly believe that is what she did. And me and the other young people at the barn would not have had the chance to witness such a beautiful and extraordinary event. Allowing Faultless to die naturally was an enormous gift to her and all of us from Terri and Jenny. They were also allowing us to grow and expand our sense of the world.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> I've always had a shaky relationship with God. I don't know if I believe in God or not. I feel that way to this day. But there were some days something else, some greater force or power, seemed present. And Faultless' last day was one of those. Whether it was a god or some sort of ever present energy, it was there that day. Incredible moments like this and many others that happened at Ashberry Hill resonate with me still.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />IElissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-23096256471226735342008-06-30T14:22:00.000-07:002008-06-30T14:29:25.237-07:00An Album in My Mind<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Kids really do rock.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">And I don't just mean that they're cool, although that is true as well. This past week, I saw a couple instances of young people truly rocking it out in their own bands. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">One is my good friend Daniel, who stars in a band called Rehab. They have songs called "The End of Childhood" and "Electric Tomato." He is inspired by The Beatles and the Velvet Underground, and enjoys music with lots of distortion.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">My adult friend Ray was the teacher for a Rock Camp, and I just saw their final performance. The kids were incredible and played songs such as "I'd Rather Rock" (who wouldn't?) An all girl band played "Anything But Those Girls," and completely kicked ass.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Where was all this when I was a tormented and picked on middle schooler?? Oh right, I was in regular band playing the clarinet. Yes, I was a nerd, but at least safe among other nerdy music lovers. Music really is a salvation for many.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Now I am involved in a band today, of sorts. It isn't exactly...real. This band, complete with albums and songs, is in my mind. It came to me one day when hiking with my good friend Annie and her dog Chopper. She brought along a box of Scoobie Snacks for him. There was a beef flavored Shaggy, a chicken flavored Scooby, etc. Well, one was a silly green cheese flavored ghost. Annie said, "Chopper, do you want a cheese flavored ghost?" And we both looked at each other in instant enlightenment. We saw Cheese Flavored Ghost form into a number one single in our minds. And the rest soon followed. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">The band's name is Loop of Henle. I did not make that up--it is a body part. A vein that is an actual loop in your kidneys. There are lots of funny names for body parts; Vas Deferens and Basal Ganglia are also great. But Loop of Henle is just magical. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">I know this is extremely random; thanks for hanging in there.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">I picture Loop of Henle being kind of indie, electronic sounding. Think Fujiya and Miyagi, maybe a little Morcheeba or Massive Attackish. Except they don't take themselves too seriously and a couple songs are pretty ridiculous.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">There are two albums, and the songs on them keep evolving. Some songs relate to some experience in my life, so I give a little explanation if that is the case. Here they are.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: arial;font-family:lucida grande;" >Breakfast for Dinner</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">1. Pre-Party Anxiety (something I get often)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">2. Karmic Suicide</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">3. You have Brainworms</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">4. It Comes in Waves</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">5. Cricket and Pogo (the cottages on Cape Cod where I spent childhood summers)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">6. Meet at the Sahara Tent (referring to the Coachella experience my friends and I shared for 5 years)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">7. The Bakerloo Line</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">8. Space for My Mind (Annie's contribution)</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">There is even an album cover for this one. I "commissioned" one of Ray's kids to draw a picture of forest animals eating pancakes at night under the trees. It's rad. I think the hits on this album are "Karmic Suicide" and "Space for My Mind."</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Cheese Flavored Ghost</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">1. Cheese Flavored Ghost! </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">2. No Pants</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">3. Emotional Incest</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">4. Have Your Cake and Screw it, Too (something I believe we have all been on both sides of)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">5. Pick Your Pace (a game we played with the horses back home--basically letting them gallop at full throttle while we held on and prayed)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">6. The Church of Zeitgeist (the bar in SF that is basically a church to me and my friends)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">7. Fantasy Fodder</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">8. I Dreamt I ate at the French Laundry and they Served Chicken Nuggets (A real dream--French Laundry is a restaurant north of SF, one of the best in the world)</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Annie said she could draw a really silly, ghetto ghost for the cover of this one. But then Daniel had the great idea of a ghostly piece of cheese floating in mid air. I picture it in the middle of a cocktail party in the middle of very confused guests. We'll fit both images in somehow.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">The song Cheese Flavored Ghost! is very silly, kind of a mock metal song. Still, I think it would be a hit. I sense the other big hit would be Emotional Incest. As you can see, this album is a bit raunchier and darker. I guess things were darker and raunchier for the "band" during this time period. More songs and possibly albums will come.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">People have asked when this band will become real. Well, being as I don't know how to write music and don't have any bandmates...probably never! But I do enjoy this album in my mind. And who knows, some of it could become real. Daniel said he would write and perform "Cheese Flavored Ghost!" Think of it as the Velveteen Rabbit of albums. It is real if you believe it real.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">I'm sure you're feeling very inspired by this to go start your own album in your mind. If not, then at least go and support your friend's band, whether they are formed of children or adults, big or just starting out. Chances are they have something to say.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">Thank you to my enormously talented friends Ray, Annie, and Daniel for their help and inspiration with the Loop of Henle.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-15500491418287069532008-06-15T21:36:00.000-07:002008-06-15T21:56:41.256-07:00The End of Years<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I<span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">t's been a while. The reason: I had to get through the End of the Year. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">True, it is not technically the end of the year. But the school year just ended, and as fellow teachers and our students can attest, that is the true end of the year. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);">It is always an emotional ride, the end of years. At least for me. Traditionally, I am relieved not to have to deal with certain difficult situations anymore. But I feel that there is much unfinished business. I am exhilarated to have some free time, to be able to sleep past 7. But I soon become restless with the easier schedule. As much as I love the kids, we all need to take a break and refocus. </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-size:130%;" >Yet I will really miss the children and some families that I became close with. Back in February and March, time seemed to stall. I felt mired in problems at work, was unhappy in my own life. Spring skipped by. And suddenly, the year was over. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-size:130%;" >Well, now what?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-size:130%;" >Time to get back to writing, for one thing. Time to walk the dog on the beach, go down water slides, drink Bloody Marys with bacon as a swizzle stick, find hidden graveyards, and all the other random things I now have more time to enjoy.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-size:130%;" >I don't write a whole lot about work--it's kind of hard when one is so entrenched in it. But here is one poem I wrote about an actual experience I had at the preschool I work at. I dedicate it to teachers and students of all ages. Happy summer. You deserve it.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >The Snail Playground</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >Room 310 has hermaphrodites for pets. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >Some preschool classes have fish or hamsters, we have snails and slugs. And why not? The children are fascinated by these slimers who are always in motion.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >We hold them every day, touch everywhere, probe gently. These are the eyes, these are the feelers, this is where the slime comes out that helps it move.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >We research our new companions, and learn that snail eggs can come out of anywhere on their bodies. One day, Snaily produced a white opaque ball from his head to much applause.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >The children do not judge a life like we often do, and deem the gastropods worthy of a playground.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >Blue prints are made, plans are laid--this takes months. Yes, 5 year olds can handle hammers and nails--these new humans are deserving of our ultimate respect. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >Finally, a three dimensional miniature community emerges. The creatures are introduced immediately, and the children watch with wide eyed concern and hope.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >“Will Slimey use the pool? Will Cutie climb the ladder?” </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >Their innocence juices my heart, killing me and sustaining me at once.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >Parents smile uncomfortably at our curriculum that centers around the leisure activities of gastropods. I explain:</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >“But the children are learning science and caring for living things and working together and this and that…”</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >Still sometimes I wonder if something is wrong with us.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >I find myself sucked into the children’s world, and care for our little pets so much. I crave holding them, feeling the slime trail that won’t wash off, the gnawing of their mouths like a baby’s fingernail on your skin, hoping in vain that Snaily who lost his shell will live…what is wrong with me?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >One day a tragedy--tiny Cutie disappears. Some surmise giant banana slug Slimey turned cannibal. We all mourn together. The children reminisce about the good times.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >Weeks later, Alex approaches me in an agitated state. Alex had never said much until his love for the snails gave him a voice. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >“I found Cutie, I found Cutie!” We all run over. Alex’s eyes point towards his open palm. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >“Look, I’m holding him right here in my hand!”</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >Unbelievably, a tiny translucent shell, its inhabitant long gone, rests in Alex’s hand.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >“But where…where was he?” I breathe. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >“In the plant next to the terrarium. He must have escaped.” </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >We are silent in sadness and wonder. Little Sophie speaks.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >“If Cutie was living in the plant…and then he died in the plant…then the plant is now Cutie!” Resounding “Yeahs!” all around. The children happily water the plant, lovingly touch the leaves, place it back next to the terrarium.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >I am struck mute, astounded by the leap of wisdom that has taken place. 5 year olds tackling the proverbial circle of life with greater ease than any adult I know. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >I breathe and smile, no longer worrying what anyone thinks. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >Now I know what is right with us.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /></span></span>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-16226315591147891152008-05-04T21:06:00.000-07:002008-05-04T21:55:57.784-07:00"For the Widows in Paradise, for the Fatherless in Ypsilanti"<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);font-family:georgia;" >The latest title I have ripped off is the name of a song by Sufjan Stevens. I find it rather provocative. The song itself is very simple and beautiful. I'm trying to figure out if the song is a father or mother talking, or perhaps God talking to his "son?" Or someone talking to God? I know Stevens is really religious. Here, you figure it out.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> I have called you children, I have called you son. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> What is there to answer if I'm the only one? </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> Morning comes in Paradise, morning comes in light. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> Still I must obey, still I must invite. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> If there's anything to say, if there's anything to do, </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> If there's any other way, I'll do anything for you. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> I was dressed embarrassment. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> I was dressed in wine. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> If you had a part of me, will you take you're time? </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> Even if I come back, even if I die </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> Is there some idea to replace my life? </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> Like a father to impress; </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> Like a mother's mourning dress, </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> If you ever make a mess, I'll do anything for you </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> I have called you preacher; I have called you son. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> If you have a father or if you haven't one, </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> I'll do anything for you. I did everything for you.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">The song resonates for me because of the "I'll do anything for you" reprise. Think about that for a minute. Are there beings out there you would do </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">anything</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);"> for? Really, anything? There are situation and people that come to mind when I hear that song, but when I think about the "anything" part I start getting freaked out. Maybe you're not supposed to think about it that much.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 102);">There is a person in my life who has committed countless selfless acts, and would do most anything for her children. That person along with a large part of the world has a day coming up--that's right, Mom. My mom did not have the easiest life as a child, yet somehow managed to break the cycle and be the best Mom ever for me and my brother and sister. I wish I could say I wrote a poem about her, but at this moment I do not have one. But I did find one by Mary Oliver that reminds me of my mother rising above hardships to embrace happiness. So, no originals today--but sometimes others say what you want to say even better. This is for the widows, the fatherless, my mother, and all those who have ever "dared to happy" in the darkest moments. <br /><br />Happy Mother's Day Mom and all moms.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Morning Poem by Mary Oliver</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Every morning</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">the world</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">is created.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Under the orange</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">sticks of the sun</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">the heaped</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">ashes of the night</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">turn into leaves again</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">and fasten themselves to the high branches--</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">and the ponds appear like black cloth</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">on which are painted islands</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">of summer lilies.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">If it is in your nature</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">to be happy</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">you will swim along the soft trails</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">for hours, your imagination</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">alighting everywhere.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">And if your spirit </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">carries within it</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">the thorn</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">that is heavier than lead--</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">if it's all you can do</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">to keep on trudging--</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">there is still somewhere deep within you</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">a beast shouting that the earth </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">is exactly what it wanted--</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">each pond with its blazing lilies </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">is a prayer heard and answered</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">lavishly,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">every morning,</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">whether or not </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">you have ever dared to be happy,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">whether or not</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">you have ever dared to pray.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> </span>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-77501439249743770822008-04-14T17:45:00.000-07:002008-04-14T17:55:20.979-07:00The Future's All Right<span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Where around here can you hug an airplane, dance to sweet beats, get chased by a robot, and play on a giant Light Brite? What type of event would appeal to retired Air Force pilots, Deadheads, club kids, science students, and my dad? That would be Yuri's night, which happened this past April 12th. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />My room mate told me about Yuri's night about a month ago. We often fill each other in about upcoming shows. He said, "There's this thing coming up called Yurni or Yuri's night or something like that. It's put on by NASA and is at their field down in Mountain View. There will be space and science stuff, but also art and music."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> I was intrigued. I didn't even know NASA had something here. "What music?" I asked.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> "Phil Lesh from the Dead, Particle, Amon Tobin, a bunch of electronic stuff..."</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> "Whoa...Amon Tobin! Dude, I've seen him like four times! Love him!"</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />Turns out another electronic act I really like, Tycho, would be there too. I was sold, and bought my ticket shortly. Pictures from last year showed large and complex art installations. There would be all sorts of talks, exhibits, and demonstrations about space stuff. While I wouldn't call myself a science geek, I do love learning and thinking about space. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />I told various friends about this. They love Amon as well, and usually don't miss a festival. Burning Man, Coachella, Love Parade, Bluegrass, High Sierra, Gay Pride--someone I know is always at one of these.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />But for this eclectic event? No one! Various excuses/reasons unfolded, and I found myself going alone. I was fine with this, and actually looked forward to the solo adventure. However, I am carless and getting to Mountain View (about 45 minutes south of SF on the peninsula) sans car is not easy. I turned to trusty Craigslist to see if anyone was offering rides, and sure enough some dude named Chris was. I prayed he wasn't a pyschotic killer and accepted.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> As I am still alive to write this, he obviously was not. And I was not the only one in his aging Volvo. Our carpool perfectly demonstrated on a small scale the population of Yuri's night.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />Chris was in his later 30's, ponytailed and skirt wearing. He was a Burning Man goer grown up, but not quite ready to let it all go. We picked up Ariana next. Not to typecast people (it really is hard not to sometimes), but she was one of those "Yeah, man!" hippie chicks. She had flowy, sparkly clothes on and carried juggling sticks. Next was Daisuke, a young man from Japan studying astral physics at Berkeley. Finally Andre joined us, who was quite a character. He did something in the courts helping people get rid of driving tickets, and also worked security at a lot of shows. Andre had several missing teeth, had met Jerry Garcia back in the day, knew a lot about many things and talked about all of them non-stop. But seemed like a truly nice person. Finding all this entertaining in itself, I had pretty high expectations for the event.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> At this point you're probably wondering Who or what the hell is Yuri, and why does he have a night? On April 12th 1961, Yuri Gagarin was a Russian man who was the very first person into space. Twenty years later the first Yuri's Night happened, and now happens in 30 countries. Yuri's Night is about celebrating achievements in space exploration, and with some art and music thrown in. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />Now I'm not super crazy about everything NASA does, and don't think we should spend trillions of dollars on space when we could use the money here and now on much more pressing issues. (Though I would rather spend money on space than invading countries.) But you what? Space really is cool! It is so big--or maybe infinite--we can't begin to imagine it. I love thinking about the possibility of worm holes, anti-matter, the space time continuum and all that. So maybe I watched Star Trek growing up. We are floating in space, no matter how you look at it, and there is no harm in learning a little more about what it all is. Or means.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> Yuri's Night Bay Area went from 2pm to 2am. Besides Chris and myself, everyone in the car was volunteering so they had to be there around 1. And Chris said he wanted to stay until 2. And it was about 85 degrees. I am not the partier I used to be, and hoped I could last. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />Entering into Moffett's field was quite surreal. Neutral colored buildings, menacing barbed wire, and bizarre domes and structures line the landscape. It is all dominated by this monstrous dirigible hangar. “Hangar One,” as it is called, housed a zeppelin during WW II. I remember seeing that thing when I was working on the peninsula for a while, and starting having dreams about finding hot air balloons and other flying devices inside it. Chris us that it was converted into offices for a while. But all the people breathing caused condensation to form on the ceiling, and it started raining inside! Sadly that hangar was off limits at the festival, and my dreams were not to come true this time. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />My start to Yuri's was a bit dubious. The others were allowed in since they were volunteers, but I had to wait an hour under the solar broiler. I had smartly dressed for warm weather, but not so smartly lacked water. It is not advisable to begin a 12+ hour festival adventure dehydrated. I just sat and watched last minute preparations and contemplated life (one of my favorite activities.)</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />When I was let in and had watered myself, I took a look at this unusual set up. It was pretty random. A big hangar with a smaller one attached to it stood at one end. A decent sized plane was at the other. The main stage was across the field (it's called a field, but it was really concrete.) Banners with famous space people formed two lines in the center. The rest of the area was dotted with smaller planes, cars, robots, and bizarre art stuff. Fascinating. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> Needing to get away from the sun, I first headed to the big hangar. The first thing I noticed there was an actual airplane in there--and the "Chill Lounge," complete with cushions, was under it! Sweet. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />A robot/space/geeky science loving person would cry from happiness in this place. And that wasn't even all there was. I did some silk screen art that had something to do with geothermal activity (I'm sure it made sense if I bothered to read the panels.) I played with a giant Lite Brite that was part of an inventor's table. There were intricate Star Wars Lego creations, and very cute robots that worked. There was a lot of information pertaining to technology that can benefit the earth, like LED lighting and using algae as a food source. Of course there was plenty of opportunities to learn about how things happen in space and new space exploration technology. Some were a little on the fringe, like an invention that converts urine into sports drinks for astronauts. Thank goodness there were no samples.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />After an easy hour of that, I found myself with a handful of stickers, a NASA pencil, a robot t-shirt I suckered myself into buying, and a bit of sensory overload. I did NOT have a glow in the dark necklace, though I wasn't sure if I could hold out all night without one. I was surprised at how fun and accessible everything was. Already I knew my friends--even non-science people--were missing out. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />At 3:30, I headed over to the Annex, the smaller hangar where the electronic music was playing. Tycho, also known as Scott Hansen, also known as my boyfriend, would be on shortly. Scott Hansen is one talented guy. He does incredible prints and t-shirts in this 60's print type style, and also has a couple of electronic music albums out. Scott happens to be very cute, and my friend and I sort of stalked him one night. We went to one of his shows and then approached him afterwards. I purposefully wore a Boards of Canada (music that is similar to his) t-shirt so he would know I'm into that type of music. And he noticed! So no, Scott Hansen really isn't my boyfriend, though he will be someday.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />The Annex was almost empty, so I could get pretty close without seeming like I was truly stalking him. We were both wearing the same t-shirt--one of his! If that isn't fate telling us we should be together, I don't know what is. Anyway, his music--how to describe it but as simple happiness? It is somehow both mellow and cheerful, evocative of childhood memories. Tycho mainly uses a computer to create his music, and a friend I ran into said, "This type of music isn't really that much better live." I agreed that it wasn't hugely different. Still, I responded, "Yeah, but when do you get to hear this kind of music in an airplane hangar?" </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />Even early on during Yuri's Night, the people watching was prime. Typical rave dancers and hippie twirlers moved in and out of a marshmallow scented fog. Stilt walkers in spacey costumes joined them. The vibe was very chill, everyone united in this unusual experience. Colored lights began swirling over the ceiling, and a freaky strobe light landed on me. The Annex would be sweet at night.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />Since there was no music or acts I needed to see for the next hour, I walked around checking out the outdoor installations and exhibits. There were three very sleek and sexy cars that happened to be hybrids or electric. The theme of this Yuri's Night was "Radical Technology for a Sustainable Future." It is certainly encouraging to see an enormous and influential corporation such as NASA thinking about making the future better. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />There was no shortage of robots at this event, and at first my favorites were these cool spheres of metal that you controlled with a remote. That is until one of them chased me and came close to slicing my legs with its giant cheese grater-like exterior. There was also a menacing fire breathing monster robot, that you wisely could not get close to. A giant revolving eye with three legs greeting everyone at the entrance. I wondered if it was secretly taking everybody's picture. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />My favorite installation was very un-tech and un-futuristic. It resembled a pagoda, and was made of all recycled materials. This included wood, glass panels, bottle caps, aluminum cans, and brass cookware. On each side there was a Chinese Dragon type face. It was big enough to go inside, and had a very peaceful feel to it. I visited it several times, enjoying how it changed with the light. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />Besides music, there were several interesting performances. These including Miguel Angelo, two guys doing crazy strong-man type stunts. There was also a dance troupe called Capacitor that used a spinning globe and humans dangling from it, inside of it, or on top of it. The weirdest act was this group called Bad Uncle Sista, who go under that dangerously nebulous category of "performance art." I should have known to steer clear. They came out on stage wearing incredible costumes of varied materials and colors, and strange props like a decapitated doll or a telephone attached to someone's head. There was no speaking, just weird slow-mo movements. I think there may have been a plot, but it was hard to tell. It was kind of like stumbling into a funeral on a Doctor Who episode, and then having a nightmare about it. What entertained me more was looking at the faces of drugged up people trying to make sense of it. I held back laughter.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />The sun started to disappear behind the hangar, bringing with it more people and more of them on drugs. Personally I don't know how people could have the balls to do drugs on fed property with so many cops around. I was talking to someone about that, and got nervous just saying "ecstasy." Still, the vibe was very chill and friendly, and people kept smiling at me. I suspect it that had something to do with the Beaker from the Muppets t-shirt I was wearing. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />Around 6, there was the Vintage Aircraft show. I'm not too into this type of thing, but was persuaded by all the people looking up to join. It was terrifying. I don't even like to fly in airplanes, and didn't really like seeing tiny, old (but cool looking) planes do tailspins towards the ground and pull up and the last second. But when I got a little closer and heard Van Halen's "Right Now" being played along with it, I felt much better. How can you not get into the spirit with that?</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />I headed back into the Annex around 8, and now it was the real deal. Full on lasers slicing the air, disco ball overhead, lights playing across the people and ceiling, hula hoopers, stilt dancers, more marshmallow smelling fog, and fantastic DJ Tipper pounding away--it was sensorial candy. Now I admitted being a little jealous of people on drugs. But dancing along side of them, I had a great time.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />The only problem was I was getting hungry. Some people can skip meals with little impact on their physical and emotional being. Not me. I'll turn into a major crankyness. Unfortunately the lines for food were "out of this world." (Ha ha--yes, that was terrible.) I sucked it up, got in line, and luckily could still hear Tipper. It took about 40 minutes. Oh well, no festival is perfect. There were never any lines for the bathrooms, at least.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />Now that is was completely dark, I couldn't resist any longer--I needed a glow in the dark necklace. Sadly, I went too late and they only had silly glow sticks. I made the best of it and put two in my pigtails. I'm sure I looked ridiculous. But when I saw a guy dressed as Data from Star Trek and a bunch of guys with balloon animal hats, I couldn't really care.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />By the way, I was having such a good time on my own. In some ways, it is almost preferable to come to these things by oneself. There was no worry of losing people, missing things you wanted to see, trying to coordinate bathroom runs. Sure, it would have been nice to have my good friends here. And I ran into several friends of friends and former room mates and coworkers. But I wasn't just fine by myself--I was actually enjoying it! There is something to be said for solo adventures. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />Finally it was time for what I had been waiting for--Amon Tobin. It was 10:30 at this point. I was covered in a cakey mixture of sweat and sunscreen, and my legs were giving out. But nothing could keep me from dancing to this guy. Who is Amon Tobin? Imagine if Phillip Glass decided to become a dj. Amon's music is brilliant and beautiful instrumentals laced with hip hop and breaks. There was no sign of weariness in the crowd as he came on. I couldn't stop smiling, and neither could anyone around me. Straddling my backpack and smashed in with people reeking of chemicals, I danced non-stop for a perfect hour.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />When Amon finished, I was feeling pretty finished as well. But Chris said he wanted to stay until 2! I toddled over to the Chill Lounge/plane, but saw the people curled up on cushions and realized most of them would be possessed by amphetamines. As I didn't feel like being groped by strangers, I avoided it. I wandered around taking in the vastness of the hangar, when thank god, Chris called and said he was ready to go.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />My fellow Yuri commuters and I walked out under the ghostly mountain of the dirigible hangar, rehashing our very different but all positive takes on our times. I came away feeling good from the fun and unusual experience, but I was also feeling pretty good about the world. We cannot argue that technology has done much harm to people and the world--and yet there is no going back. Technology is not going to go away, but it can be made better. And even beneficial. Yuri's night presented a sort of vision of the future--one where cars and even spaceships can run on materials other than oil, one where unusual organic compounds (algae and urine) can be made consumable, and one where art and music is still highly valued. While not everything might be fixable, anything is possible.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><br />I'll definitely visit Yuri's Night again. I'm bringing all my friends. And maybe even my dad.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> </span>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-49017364481249680282008-04-06T22:20:00.000-07:002008-04-08T20:13:28.293-07:00In Sleaze I Trust<script src="http://www.google-analytics.com/urchin.js" type="text/javascript"><br /></script><br /><script type="text/javascript"><br />_uacct = "UA-4059164-1";<br />urchinTracker();<br /></script><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">By "sleaze" I am referring to a favorite place of mine, Las Vegas. And why I am thinking about Vegas, you wonder? Because I'm about to travel somewhere similar. No, not Reno. Not a casino in the middle of California. This place doesn't even have slot machines.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">The place I speak of is Disney World. </span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">Um, and </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">how</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> is the eponymous magical wonderland like Vegas?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">Ok, so Disney World isn't sleazy in the way most people's use of the word. But there are many similarities. And you'll have to read the following essay to find out why! That's kind of sleazy of me, isn't it?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">Before we get to that, I need to mention my current literary idol, David Foster Wallace. He has a brilliant book of essays called </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again.</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> One is about a Carnival ship cruise he took and another concerns the Illinois state fair. Both, while events that have been enjoyed by millions by now, were things he found quite dreadful. But he manages to discover many facets of humanity and immense amounts of humor while experiencing them. Wallace gives them as much credit as a trip to an exotic foreign country. He sees </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">culture</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> there. And writes about it most ingeniously.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">That is what I am trying for in some of my work. I used to be not too crazy about Vegas or Disney World. I was jaded, noticed only the obnoxious and loathsome things, and whined a lot. Now I try to see things as cultural expeditions. There is so much richness in these places, as frightening as they may be.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">So I am most definitely looking forward to my trip to DW and what I'll find. Enjoy the essay about Vegas--and go embrace the sleaze that's out there.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Vegas</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Come to the Jihad in Vegas!”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> I laughed at the email subject line. A Jihad, a holy war, happening in the most unholy of places on earth.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> My good friend Liz sent me the email, and I inquired as to the meaning. She works for a television production company.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Our show is wrapping up, and my coworker Max has a tradition of celebrating in Vegas. It’s a really fun bunch of people. It should be awesome.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “And I’m invited to this?” I asked skeptically.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Yeah, anyone can come!”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Well, it’ll probably be expensive…” I am perpetually, pathetically broke.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “A bunch of us will stay in a room, so hopefully it won’t be too bad.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> When I heard Liz got a suite at the Venetian for a decent price, and flights on Frontier were cheap, I was in. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Now I had been to Vegas twice before. I had fun enough times, but never was super ecstatic about going. This time, however, I felt I needed this more than ever. I had just finished my year teaching at a preschool. I love my job, but it is exhausting in every way possible. The end of the year is always punctuated by regressing children and tearful parents, and I had had enough of emotion. I needed a release--a party, a good one. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “I good use a good house party right now,” I told Liz a short time ago.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Um, people our age don’t have house parties anymore,” she reminded me.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Most of our friends are 30 now. We are secure in our jobs, finally saving money, looking into buying houses. Most people are paired off or will be soon. In general, everyone is predictably more settled. More adult.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> I have found myself reacting to all this nonsense. While I too am thinking about my future in adult terms, I also want to party more, have one night stands, just be generally juvenile. I attribute part of this backlash to the need to make up for lost time. I was a goody goody in high school--involved in wholesome activities that did not involve drugs, alcohol, or sex. But that was fine. It was college where I should have busted out but remained voluntarily stuck in a sheltered space . Why? I was afraid, I guess. Afraid of losing control, of something bad happening, I don’t know. Consequently, I went a little nuts when I moved out to San Francisco. Now that I’m 30 should I stop such shenanigans? Nah. And Vegas would be the perfect place to embrace such regression.</span><br /> <br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> My first trip to Las Vegas was against my will. It was the fall of ‘99, when I was out of college but not yet out of paranoid naiveté. Vegas was one of the last stops on a cross country trip with two friends. Until this point, the trip was almost all national parks and camping. To be affronted with the clanging noise, florid lights, and humanity at their lowest I found overwhelming and depressing. We didn’t even stay at a casino, but at the Aztec Inn. Never heard of it? Don’t bother to investigate. We did some gambling and I had enough fun, but was way too glad to leave. The second trip was in 2002 with some girl friends. I had loosened up considerably and enjoyed myself more. We did more gambling, went to some bars and clubs, stayed at the Tropicana. While it was fun, it didn’t change my life. This trip, happening well into adulthood, would prove to have the most debauchery and also be the most fun.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> The room would include my good friends Liz and Sally, and two of Liz’s coworkers, Angela and Nina. Liz’s sister Leslie would be sharing the room also, but we wouldn’t see much of her as she was there for her high school reunion.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “It is the best group of girls EVER!” Liz told me a few days before. “Everyone is fun and hilarious, and there will be no drama.” Thank God. Many trips even with good friends contain small portions of drama. It is only natural. To have a weekend away with no drama at all is my ultimate dream. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> On Friday evening, Liz, Nina, and I drove to the airport and met Angela there. Angela was on the road to drunk at a bar chatting up a very all-American dude. Nina stayed with her while Liz and I went to check our flight status. We looked at each other and laughed. “Wow,” I commented. “This is a great start to things.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Yeah, this is going to be good,” said Liz smiling.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Even the flight foreshadowed upcoming frivolity. I’ve been on flights before where people cheered when we landed. That happened this time, but everyone also cheered before we even took off! The flight crew joked along with us, telling us to “hurry and finish your alcoholic beverages and practice blackjack games before landing.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We met up with Sally and got into the inevitable cab line. It was a lovely 85 degrees, and this was at 10 o’clock at night! Sweat ran out of my flip flops. I am not a hot weather person, and wondered how I could survive the day. Really, this was not so bad to have as your worst worry.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Not even a minute had passed and Angela had made friends with two shaggy guys in line. I looked at Liz and asked if she was always like this. “Yes,” Liz replied. “Angela excels at making friends everywhere.” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Well, then she has way more balls than I do and she is my hero,” I remarked. I made a mental note to try to have balls like that.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Finally we got into a cab and were on our way to Venetian. “Who were your friends?” I inquired Angela.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Oh, that was Chad and Rab.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Their names are not Chad and Rab.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Oh yes they are!” I am one to be amused by the little things, and if this is how the trip has begun, I could only imagine how great it was going to get.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> In the cab, I surveyed the now familiar scene of gargantuan casinos and probing lights. But this time instead of seeming garish and overwhelming, it was exciting and even welcoming. Why did I find this place so loathsome before? This place was created as an escape; you are supposed to be happy here! I guess if I wasn’t comfortable being crazy in my normal environment, I couldn’t possibly be here. Thankfully I have “grown up” in regards to partying.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Suddenly I realized Las Vegas is actually very similar to another place which I am very familiar with: Disney World. These are two places made specifically to escape reality. They are fantasy worlds, with many attractions created to keep you in that fantastical realm. Obviously there is a bit of a crowd difference--but really, the concept of both is nearly the same. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We arrived and walked into the air conditioned opulence of the Venetian. The Venetian is covered from floor to ceiling in mock Renaissance paintings complete with cherubs and sandaled people holding wine jugs. They are pretty amateur in terms of talent, but they do add a certain class. The people who worked there are incredibly nice and helpful. “This is just like Disney World!” I remarked. “I don’t remember people being this nice in Vegas.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “I think this is what happens when you pay more,” Sally said. Ah, that made sense. This was a considerable step up from the Aztec Inn and the Tropicana. We saw one of the pools, lit in a twilit glow. It was integrated into a garden and surrounded by fountains. Not quite as nice as the one at Hearst Castle, but it would do. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Our suite was indeed that--sweeeet!! “Wa wa wee wa!” I channeled Borat as we surveyed our temporary domain that included two Tvs and a sunken living room. Everyone groaned at me. “What, someone had to say it!” We dumped our stuff in there and took off to meet the Jihad gang at Harrah’s. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> They were at a bar right inside the Casino, and had been drinking since 10 in the morning. Predictably, they were quite amiable. I inquired of Max, the organizer of the Jihad, how he chose that name.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “A Jihad is a holy war. That is basically what we are doing: waging war through alcohol and blowing lots of money. And in the most holiest of places!”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Do you tell airport security that is what you were doing?”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Max laughed. “Yeah, you tell them that and then--” He mimed being patted down.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Sometimes being patted down isn’t such a bad thing,” I said. He smiled and winked.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Right after this conversation, an obviously intoxicated young man approached us. He grabbed Liz’s hand and slurringly said, “Come with me; I’m honest!” She politely declined while the rest of us laughed into our drinks. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> When he walked away, Nina asked, “Liz, why did you say that? He was honest!”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Riiiight….” responded Liz.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Holy shit!” Angela shouted, pointing. About 10 feet away from us, that guy was in a brawl with another dude! Angela decided this would be a good thing to document and whipped out her camera. (They were all part of a television company, after all. And since we had just witnessed this guy in action, it was pretty funny.) Paranoid as ever, I started to have a bad feeling about the camera.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Do you think she should be taking pictures?” I murmured.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Oh, it’s fine,” Sally replied. “Now we can always remember Liz’s ’honest’ boyfriend!” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> This dude actually ended up being pinned down by security and dragged out. We all looked at each other spitting out our drinks in laughter. Suddenly I had a brilliant thought.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Liz! If you had just gone with this guy, this wouldn’t have happened!”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Yeah,” Nina laughed. “Maybe the guy he picked a fight with was about to hit on you!” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “It’s all your fault, Liz!” one of the Jihad group yelled. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> This was of course all good natured, and Liz just shook her head and laughed. But our good times were not to last. My paranoia about the camera was not unfounded: a security guy walked over to us and asked Angela to leave for taking pictures.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Oh that is bullshit!” Angela replied adamantly. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “I thought this might happen,” I whispered to Sally. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We all decided to leave, loudly proclaiming that Harrah’s is a ghetto casino that sucks balls. Things were going to break up anyway--the Jihads were exhausted as they had been drinking for twelve hours straight, and decided to retire. We deliberated on what to do next. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “What about going to dive bars?” I asked. Liz and I had talked about trying to do some things off the strip. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Well, last year the Jihad went to Hogs and Heifers. It is the bar that the movie Coyote Ugly is based on.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Yeah, the girls yell at you on megaphones and everything!” Nina said. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “How does that sound?” Liz asked me.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> I smiled. “Perfect.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We decided to give it a try. Sally decided to stay back and do some gambling. </span><br /> <br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> The four remaining ladies hopped in a cab and headed downtown. Downtown Vegas is off the strip. I imagine people who actually live in Vegas go downtown, as do the cool kids like us wanting to do something “different.” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Downtown has a very different feel to it than the rest of Vegas. The casinos are very old school style, with animated neon signs rather than dancing fountains. The hotels are almost normal size. It is much mellower, almost like Reno--but not as sad. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Hogs and Heifers turned out to be one of the coolest bars I’ve ever been in, period. Big, hairy bouncers with a defined “don’t fuck with us” look bordered the door. But they welcomed us with a “Hi ladies, come on in!” The first thing I noticed was a sign that said “No Whining. No ties. No douchebags.” My friends have decided lately that “douchebag” was the insult of the times, so I took it as a sign we were meant to be here. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> The place was huge, dark, and the patrons stood along the walls. Some bearded daddies were playing pool, and Angela promptly joined them. Again, the cahones on this girl. The rest of us went up to the bar. Signed dollar bills wallpapered the ceiling. I’m sure some celebrity signatures were up there. Animal heads lined the walls, and the ones above the bar were draped with hundreds of bras. No shortage of interesting things to look at here. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> The bar ladies were scantily clad, quite hot, and did indeed use megaphones. You did not mess around in there. Within a half hour of us arriving, a woman got escorted out for being too drunk and a guy for apparently being a douchebag. “Say goodbye to the asshole, everyone!” one of the bar ladies blasted through the megaphone. “Goodbye, asshole!” we all obeyed. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> A decent looking guy started talking to me at the bar. It was loud in there, and I had to try to not yell, “What? WHAT!” constantly as I am sure I’m going deaf from all the concerts I‘ve attended. I think the dude asked what I liked best about America. Oooh, this guy’s not for me. I am not the flag sticker type, and currently I am not that crazy about the USA. “Uh, the food?” I tried. He wasn’t impressed, and shortly left. I had to remind myself I was not in the sheltered den of San Francisco anymore, where it is cool to be unpatriotic.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> The stories held true, and in time the ladies jumped up on the bar and danced. And damn, they could actually dance! Afterwards I asked one of them how they do this body quivering thing. She was very friendly and gave a demonstration. I’ll never be able to do it, but I appreciated the lesson. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Angela checked in with us and said she was having a great time with the daddies. We decided to leave shortly afterwards, being it was almost 3 and we would have a big night tomorrow. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> I learned something from Hogs and Heifers. There is a genuine, uncorrupted side of Vegas. Sure, this place is famous and had its schtick, yet it wasn’t gimmicky. It wasn’t showy or pretentious. You didn’t have to spend tons of money. The people there were down to earth, nice, and real. It was refreshing, and made me feel good about Vegas. About life in general.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We slept until the beautiful hour of 11 the next morning. There was only one item on the agenda for the day--pool.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Now I don’t care for the heat. That is why I am happy to live in San Francisco. Walking outside of the air-con incubator of the hotel was like walking into an oven made for cooking humans. It is the type of heat that sucks all the internal and external moisture out of you. I spent no time lying in the sun and jumped right into the wonderfully unheated pool. Sally spent her time sipping on the $15 pina coladas. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> The crazy thing is this wasn’t even the main pool. Eventually we worked our way through the extraordinarily confusing hotel to find it. This was certainly more of a scene, with lots of well sculpted young adults and extravagant cabanas complete with flat screen Tvs and mist fans. Once again I jumped into the giant pool, noticing foam and sediment from drinks and body products gathering around the edges. I tried not to look. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> The day was spent observing humanity in all its nearly naked glory from the pool.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">Every 15 minutes I would leave to neurotically slather more lip sunscreen on and laugh at Liz who mummified herself with towels. The only thing I would have liked was a noodle or floaty for the pool. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Sally and I decided to return to the oasis of our rooms before we might succumb to sun-madness. We passed out for a couple hours, and awoke to find the rest of the ladies in there. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Ugh,” Angela proclaimed as she got up. “What should we do for dinner? I saw a food court sign in the casinos.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Ooh, do they have Panda Express?” I asked. “I’ve been craving MSG-laden Chinese food lately.” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Wow, classy,” said Nina. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Yeah, not so much,” said Liz.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “There is a ‘nice’ food court also,” said Angela. “It has paninis and stuff.” We decided on that. Panda Express would have to wait.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We discussed the evenings activities over our decent and not terribly overpriced sandwiches. Sally, Liz, and I were going to go see Cirque du Soleil’s Ka at the MGM. Nina and Angela would meet up with the Jihad, and then we would all go to club Tao. This was the Venetian’s “Premier Nightclub” and supposedly one of the best in Vegas. Liz had arranged for us to be on the guest list. There were signs all over the Venetian that showed a serene Buddha and said “Club Tao: Always a Happy Ending.” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Hee, hee, happy ending!” I chortled.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “If we get in for free, thanks to Liz, it will indeed be that,” said Nina.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “This is going to be the most amazing night ever!” I gleefully exclaimed. I felt like I was 21 again. If I had been a normal 21 year old. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “I think you may be right,” said Sally. Liz, Sally, and I wished the others fun and took off for the MGM. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> I am doing my best to become a connoisseur of Cirque Du Soleil. I have seen two shows that nearly made my heart explode with joy. Ka would no doubt be especially fantastic, since it is in a permanent theater. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We walked into the cavernous theater to find the space above laced with intricate passageways and cages. Flames spewed from the enormous stage area (there was no actual stage visible yet.) “Oh my god, my stomach just dropped!” Sally gasped.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “I have goosebumps!” I exclaimed. Liz was mutely astonished. This was the type of thing that would have made me cry from excitement when I was a child. I did so when I saw all the World Champion Ice Skaters and went to my first IMAX show. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> It turns out all three of us would come close to tears several times throughout the show. Ka was the most extraordinarily over the top production, yet it was perfect. The stage moved all over the place, including completely vertical. At one point it was like an enormous Plinko game, and the actors fell through pegs and dropped into the air. There was a very sweet and quiet moment where a boy and a man made shadow puppets with their hands projected onto a large screen. The animals they made had expressions, for God’s sake! </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> The trippiest scene for me was when the stage became a Day-Glo colored jungle, with weird tubes and pipes and ropes dangling from the ceiling. The actors swung on “vines” doing crazy acrobatics, and gigantic puppets of snakes and insects meandered up and down the trees. The whole experience was something like an innocent, happy acid trip. I’ve heard that some kids these days like to do hallucinogens at these shows. I think if I had done that, I either would have run out screaming or tried to join the joyful jungle. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">Drugs were quite unnecessary.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We walked out of the theater very over-stimulated, dazed and high. I spoke first. “I…don’t even know what to say right now.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “That was…wow,” commented Sally. Liz admitted to being close to tears three times. Although it was a totally different experience than Hogs and Heifers last night, it left me with a similar feeling--a positive one. You could go to Vegas and actually have uncorrupted fun. Granted, it would cost you--our tickets to Ka were $100. But it was $100 of pure pychedelic joy! The sole purpose of a Cirque show is to make you happy, to appreciate the phenomenal feats our fellow humans can accomplish. Everyone that goes to Vegas needs to see this, or something similar. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We met up with the other ladies and the Jihad at a bar at MGM. Figuring no one else could begin to understand what we had just experienced, we kept our explanations to “It was awesome! Just incredible.” Everyone was in a jolly mood, and I started to get jittery. I often do before a big night out. “It’s already midnight; shouldn’t we go soon?” I whispered in a growl to Liz. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Yeah, we’ll go soon, whenever,” she replied. I sighed unhappily. Not wanting to annoy people, I decided to stay quiet. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “I think you need a shot,” Sally slyly said. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Yeah, you’re right.” Just then Max slid me a frightenly green drink. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Here. This will help you.” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Uh, what is it?” I asked, peering at the concoction. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “An atomic watermelon!” It did help chill my nerves.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Finally, at 12:30 we decided it was time for the next stage of fun. Our short cab ride would be well-remembered, thanks to the zany driver.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Hello…Mandela?” Angela greeted him.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Yes, I am Mandela. But you call me Daddy Baby.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Daddy Baby? Wow,” Sally laughed.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “What, you not want Daddy Baby?”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Um, we weren’t really looking for one, no,” said Angela.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Maybe later,” said Sally.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> He kept looking back and smiling at all of us, causing him to go through two red lights. Liz put on her seatbelt.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Maybe you should watch the road there, Mandela,” Sally suggested.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Oh Daddy Baby know where to go. Here, I have something for you.”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We all looked at each other in alarm as he reached into a box. I looked over at Nina sitting next to me. She was sleeping, and offered no comfort. What was he going to pull out? Drugs? Sex toys? Puppies?? Turns out it was just some sleazy flyers.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Oh Mandela, that is pretty cheap of you,” Sally admonished. Thank God by that time we had arrived and exited rather quickly. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We swiftly and happily walked through the halls, blabbing about crazy Mandela and perhaps that is what happens to you when you live in Vegas too long. We stopped by the room for a brief adjustment, and then it was off to Tao.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> I took note of the population of Vegas visitors as we walked through the casino. Nearly every woman, including those above 60, were dressed like hoochies. It could be frightening. But then again, why the hell not? They were enjoying themselves, no one was going to tell them what to do. It was part of the whole escape thing--no one would tell them how to dress; no one cared! As for the guys, there were way too many of them with tucked in button down shirts. Fine for some, but not my taste. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Of course there was a line outside Tao. We confidently walked up and Liz announced we were on the guestlist. We were put in a much shorter line. High fives and proclamations of “Sweeet!” ensued. The bizarre sight of two woman in tubs filled with rose petals greeted us as we walked in. One looked like she was enjoying her self, while the other looked miserable. “I think that woman is chained to the tub!” Angela whispered. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “But the other one is loving it! Maybe she’s getting a happy ending,” Nina responded. The rest of us cracked up.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Our guestlist induced cockiness was short lived. The chick at the desk said “$20 please!” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “No no, we’re on the guestlist,” Liz asserted. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Oh, this isn’t the guestlist line. You have to go back out to that line,” she said, pointing to the longer line. We looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Then a series of confusing things happened. Some random dude walking in handed Sally and Nina cards and suddenly they got stamped by the security guy and were in. The rest of us looked at each other, wondering what the hell had happened. We tried pleading with the chick again and waving our hotel key cards, like that meant anything. No, we still had to pay and the security dude wouldn’t give us a stamp. We snuck in anyway. But then when we tried to go upstairs where the giant Buddha was, we were barred by another humorless bouncer. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Perplexed and annoyed, Angela, Liz, and I went back out to what we thought was the guest line. And the same thing happened again! Nina and Sally looked at us from inside with hopeful expressions. I meekly suggested just paying the $20. “Hell no, we’re not paying!” shouted Liz. Damn, Liz had grown some serious balls. We ended up saying “Screw it,” and just stayed downstairs. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Actually, I don’t think there is a guestlist,” I shouted to Liz. “That’s just a scam to entice you to Tao, but then pay to get in!”</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Probably. Whatever, it’s fine. We’ll still have fun.” The serene Buddha would remain out of our reach. Vegas will try to get money from you somehow.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We didn’t let our initial disappointment rule our evening. Soon we started pounding Red Bull Vodkas, to get us silly drunk and keep us up. I gagged on the cough syrup-like concoction, but I knew it would help. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Now the scene here was one I would have condemned in San Francisco. Bad music, overpriced drinks, obnoxious people. But it was acceptable in Vegas--and we just played with it. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> One game we enjoyed was enticing the men lined up at the bar to dance with us and then rejecting them. Most of them were from other countries, had slicked down hair and half unbuttoned shirts. We did like a couple guys, like wacky Justin. He had longer, shaggy hair and did a great Axel Rose impression. But when he figured out he wasn’t getting any of us in bed, he ditched us. I personally loved Joe, a cute little Philipino guy. He was really sweet and a great dancer--and had just moved to Las Vegas. I’ve heard people that move here either avoid the strip entirely or end up gambling addicts. I silently wished Joe well.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Then there was the newly turned 21 year old, who wanted us to come celebrate with him. We invited him to dance, and he promptly tried to molest each of us. “Hey, I’m just a squirrel looking for my nut,” he told Sally. We tried to help him by showing him one could dance and not grope. Any of us could have gotten lucky many times over that night, but all we wanted was to dance.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We did so for hours, screaming when the DJ played a Bon Jovi or Michael Jackson song. Nina was hilarious, as she never stayed in one place for more than 5 seconds. It was very confusing to guys who were trying to dance with her. Liz and I kept looking at each other, smiling and shaking our heads at the joyful hilarity of it. She was right--this was the greatest group of girls. We were all on the same wavelength in terms of what we wanted from this trip. And we were all getting it. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Around 4:30 am, I was stupid drunk, tweaked from Red Bulls, and my legs were losing their bounce. Sally, Liz, and I decided to bow out. We walked back through the twilit mock “canals” of the Venetian. It kind of was like being in Venice, minus the sewer smell. The only other people we saw were cracked out tourists and jaded looking security guards. The three of us looked at each other, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Between the insane Cirque show and the madness of the club, it was hardly believeable. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> I felt self-conscious about our state when we entered the main lobby, but it was soon apparent most everyone was fucked up. I saw a girl take off her shoes and loudly proclaim how much shoes sucked.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Yeah, FUCK SHOES!” I yelled, and kicked mine down the hall. Sally and Liz laughed and shook their heads at me. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Complete mayhem ensued when we arrived back at our room. It was 30 year old Girls Gone Wild, the PG version. I decided we couldn’t survive without ice and took off running down the hall with the ice bucket. It seemed like the hallway stretched on forever and I was alone on some crazy adventure. Angela and Nina were returning when I came back. “YEAH, WOO-HOO, PAR-TAY!!” I screamed at them. Inside the room, full on pillow fights and jumping on the beds were in full swing. Phallic shaped pillows called for shenanigans. I kept jumping up on the window sill and opening the curtain to see dusty dawn spreading over the city. I had to stop because everyone thought I would somehow fall/jump out of the unopenable window. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Liz’s sister Leslie would be returning from her reunion at any moment, and Angela and Sally decided it would be a good idea to ambush her with the phallic pillows. They staked themselves by the door until they gave into Liz’s gentle pleas that it wouldn’t be a good idea. Leslie somehow snuck in and went right into the bathroom. I think she suspected what state we would be in, and took a half hour long shower. Then Sally thought it would be fun to ambush Leslie when she came out of the shower. But soon all of us gave into a system crash, and passed out. Leslie timed it perfectly, and came out after we had fallen into still unconsciousness. Smart girl. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We had to be out of the room at 11, and getting up was brutal. My legs were filled with gelatinous goo, and my brain felt like it had been emptied of everything that was smart and good. Yet we wouldn’t have changed anything about last night. We managed to clean up and kept ourselves buoyed by thoughts of food and pool, food and pool…</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We stupidly staggered to the café. I almost cried when I saw a breakfast item that is hard to find but I often long for…chicken and waffles! I drenched it in honey butter and syrup. That combined with a Coke brought me to a semi-functional level. Why be healthy now? I’d make up for it when I got home. Maybe. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> After we checked our bags for the day, we headed off to the pool once again. Liz sneakily kept a couple keys so we could get in. We thought about going to Rehab, the giant flesh fest that happens at the Hard Rock hotel every Sunday. “Expect about 3000 people and to pay at least $20,” Liz said. The idea nauseated me. That is one thing that has changed about me with age--my tolerance for crowds, particularly obnoxious ones, has really gone down. Even if hot, nearly naked people were included. Our pool was just fine--much mellower than yesterday. I tried to take a nap in the sun, but once again was driven into the pool by the heat. It was perfect. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> The afternoon ended, and we realized our happy trip to dysfunctional utopia was ending. We gathered our stuff and said a truly said goodbye to Sally, even though we all lived in the city. But we would not be together in this crazy fantasy.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> The rest of us wouldn’t leave for a few hours, so we met up with the Jihad one last time for dinner. As soon as we walked out of the Venetian, Nina said, “Remember when we stayed at the Venetian? Remember when Sally was with us?” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Oh God! It’s so sad!” I kind of pretend cried. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We went to Gilly’s, a Western-themed restaurant in the New Frontier casino. It was a big warehouse and the floor was covered in wood chips. I literally did grow up in a barn, and said happily, “It smells like home!” There was even a mechanical bull. We did see some tackle it, but alas, none in our group. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Illegally huge portions of chicken wings, corn on the cob, and mashed potatoes soothed our sad bodies and minds. A song came on called “Honky Tonk Budonkadonk.” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “What does that mean?” inquired one the guys. </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> “Budonkadonk is big bootie. You know, junk in the trunk?” I told him. “I’m guessing Honky Tonk is the white trash variety.” </span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> We enjoyed final laughs and each other’s company, but soon even I was ready to go. I was wasted, sticky and itchy with chlorine and sweat. We said bye to the Jihad and thanked them for allowing us to be a part of this most holy experience. “See you next time!” they said. I planned on it.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> As we walked through the departing gates at the Vegas airport, I saw a big sign that said “Goodbye…for now.” I liked that. There was no doubt I would be back. One should never put a cap on trips to Vegas.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Thank the deities I didn’t have to work the next day. I slept until noon, and woke feeling like half my brain had atrophied. My sinuses and lungs were clogged from breathing in smoke-filled, air-conditioned air that never saw the outdoors. And I regretted nothing. I layed in my bed, thinking about all the craziness that I somehow missed my first couple trips. Am I too old for such shenanigans? Maybe. Certainly some of what we did wasn’t exactly good for us. But we were so happy for most of it. And isn’t that what escaping is about? Aren’t we supposed to seek out activities that release excesses of pleasure hormones into our system? Yes.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> I think the contributing factor to the joy I experienced in this trip was the people. We all wanted to be there and all were seeking this positive escape. And hell, we were fun and hilarious. We can’t always surround ourselves with people perfect for the moment. But wouldn’t it be great if we could?</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);"> Vegas may not be a morally good place. You are encouraged to throw down heaps of money in games you may not win. There are a variety of sexual exploits at your disposal. But just because we are grown up, does not mean we should stop playing. I feel good about our trip. I am happy about my regression. I am so much happier now. </span>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-46076318468425910562008-03-26T20:19:00.000-07:002008-03-26T21:15:49.292-07:00"In Nonsense is Strength"<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">I lifted my title from the book I am currently reading, </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">Breakfast of Champions</span><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> by Kurt Vonnegut. He was using it to describe how the bizarre symbols of the US dollar are supposed to mean something, but really seems to be a bunch of "nonsense." And therefore that is what our country is built upon. He is using it in a more negative context, and I pretty much agree that the stuff on the dollar and much about this country is nonsense. But I'm also going to say, Kurt, with much respect I really </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">do</span><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> think there is strength in nonsense. And hell, I really think he would agree with me on some fronts.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> <br />If I may, I need to add a side note on KV. My grandparents actually knew the guy--he lived on Cape Cod right near them! Vonnegut actually wrote a short story about Sandy Neck, a little peninsula of sand dunes in Barnstable Harbor. My family would go sailing over there. I guess that story is out of print now. What I would give to get my hands on that.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"><br />Anyway, back to nonsense. I am interpreting the term to mean something that doesn't make sense in the normal context of things. But really, much of this supposed insanity is what makes the most sense of all. This is certainly true in writing. It could be said that James Joyce's </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">Finnegan's Wake</span><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> is nonsense. While it is certainly hard to understand, every place in it is real. (No, I have not read it and nor plan to without help.) I'm sure there are ignorant folks out there who say Dr. Seuss is simply frivolous fodder for children. Yes, he is wacky, but nearly every one of his books points to something meaningful: whether for the world or for a child personally. Sometimes turning something on its head or inside out makes its significance so much clearer.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 255, 255);"> Speaking of weird things, what did you think of my plant poem? I did say I would provide the "answers"to both. See how describing every day objects such as babies, clocks, or televisions from a completely different perspective makes you stop for a moment? Makes you take a second look at everything? Hopefully. I dare you to try it.</span><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">books</span><br />and some are treasured for their markings--<br /><br />they cause the eyes to melt <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">laugh or cry</span><br />or the body to shriek without pain.<br /><br />I have never seen one fly, but<br />sometimes they perch on the hand.<br /><br />Mist in when the sky is tired of flight<br />and rests its soft machine on ground:<br /><br />then the world is dim and bookish<br />like engravings under tissue paper.<br /><br />Rain is when the earth is television.<br />It has the property of making colors darker.<br /><br />Model T is a room with the lock inside-- <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">a car ride--I love that the Martian</span><br />a key is turned to see the world <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">interprets it as the world moving, not the car</span><br /><br />for movement, so quick there is a film<br />to watch for anything missed.<br /><br />But time is tied to the wrist<br />or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.<br /><br />In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps, <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">I think this is a cat</span><br />that snores when you pick it up.<br /><br />If the ghost cries, they carry it <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">a baby</span><br />to their lips and soothe it to sleep.<br /><br />with sounds. And yet, they wake it up<br />deliberately, by tickling with a finger.<br /><br />Only the young are allowed to suffer<br />openly. Adults go to a punishment room <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">I think this way of seeing using</span><br /> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">the bathroom is brilliant</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">with water but nothing to eat.<br />They lock the door and suffer the noises<br /><br />alone. No one is exempt<br />and everyone's pain has a different smell.<br /><br />At night, when all the colors die, <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">sleeping and dreaming--beautiful</span><br />they hide in pairs<br /><br />and read about themselves--<br />in color, with their eyelids shut.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">Contemplations of a House Plant<br /><br /><br />The motiles pour love on our nest so we continue: <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Motile means mobile, the plant does not know love as we do, but sees the all important water as something like love. The plant wonders why the mobile creature feels obliged to keep it alive. </span><br />this worship baffles.<br /><br />We must reach for the Presence to glean food from within, <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Presence is the sun, which we close <br /> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">the shades to</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><br />but it is poison to the motiles: when the Presence sings<br />strongest the walls are closed.<br /><br />A trunk hums beside us and commands them to lay down <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">The TV, the only thing that </span><br />temporary radicles-- then they are still for a time. </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">keeps us still. Radicles are roots</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><br />But every Absence the motiles revolt and silence the box: <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Absence means the absence of the </span><br />an unsymbiotic relationship. </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> sun. At night the people turn off the tv</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><br />Sometimes there is an Infestation. <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">I tried to use words a plant would know--<br /></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"> in this case an "infestation" of humans is a party</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><br />A device pollinates dense vibrations; <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">The vibrating device is a stereo</span><br />it causes madness in the unrooted.<br /><br />They flutter and grasp, until they finally fall in a rotting heap. <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">Dancing, fallen down drunk,</span><br />By the arrival of the Presence, they are weeded out. <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">stumbling home the next day</span><br /><br />Occasionally a starving terror finds me. <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">A child pulling at its leaves. Since</span><br />It rips rips at our organs, and never feels the scream. <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">the plant doesn't understand the<br /> child's playful motives, it assumes<br /> the child is a starving creature.<br /> I'm not sure if I believe the thing about plants screaming in pain; I was thinking this was more an expression of irritation.<br /></span><br />During the Absence the motiles vanish. But they always return from the terrible nothing; and the adoration begins anew.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">The plant doesn't understand the humans disappearing every night, and assumes they actually are gone from its reality. Yet they come back every morning and continue to "worship" the plant</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /></span></span>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-7189412639381080312008-03-19T22:02:00.000-07:002008-03-19T22:37:12.589-07:00A dose of perspective...<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">A little change of perspective is good for all of us now and then. The problem is, it is pretty damn hard to <span style="font-style: italic;">actually </span>change your perspective. We can try to see things from another point of view, but only try. Of course, it is probably better that we can't. In the kick-ass movie <span style="font-style: italic;">Being John Malkovich, </span>the people who do get to literally see through another's eyes become hopelessly obsessed with it.<br /><br />But sometimes circumstances force people to experience things in a whole new way. In the seminal <span style="font-style: italic;">Pilgrim at Tinker Creek </span>by Annie Dillard, there is a chapter devoted to this subject. She talks about reading accounts of people who newly sighted people who were born blind. These people literally have to rediscover the world, and what they see is incredible:<br /><br />"To one patient, a human hand, unrecognized, is 'something bright and then holes.' One girl was eager to tell her blind friend that 'men do not really look like trees at all,' and astounded to discover that every visitor had an utterly different face."<br /><br />I have no doubt that becoming sighted after a life of blindness is terrifying in many ways. And yet I am envious of this sudden transformation in the way the world is literally seen. These stories moved Annie Dillard to attempt to see the world in other perspectives:<br /><br />"I blurred my eyes and gazed towards the brim of my hat and saw a new world...I saw the linear flashes, gleaming silver, like stars being born at random down a rolling scroll of time. Something broke and something opened. I filled up like a new wineskin. I breathed an air like light, I saw a light like water."<br /><br />I should mention Annie Dillard is one of my idols. I'm pretty sure she was nuts, but a genius nut.<br /><br />Another master of perspective change is Craig Raine, in his wonderful poem "A Martian Sends a Postcard Home:"<br /><br />Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings<br />and some are treasured for their markings--<br /><br />they cause the eyes to melt<br />or the body to shriek without pain.<br /><br />I have never seen one fly, but<br />sometimes they perch on the hand.<br /><br />Mist in when the sky is tired of flight<br />and rests its soft machine on ground:<br /><br />then the world is dim and bookish<br />like engravings under tissue paper.<br /><br />Rain is when the earth is television.<br />It has the property of making colors darker.<br /><br />Model T is a room with the lock inside--<br />a key is turned to see the world<br /><br />for movement, so quick there is a film<br />to watch for anything missed.<br /><br />But time is tied to the wrist<br />or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.<br /><br />In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,<br />that snores when you pick it up.<br /><br />If the ghost cries, they carry it<br />to their lips and soothe it to sleep.<br /><br />with sounds. And yet, they wake it up<br />deliberately, by tickling with a finger.<br /><br />Only the young are allowed to suffer<br />openly. Adults go to a punishment room<br /><br />with water but nothing to eat.<br />They lock the door and suffer the noises<br /><br />alone. No one is exempt<br />and everyone's pain has a different smell.<br /><br />At night, when all the colors die,<br />they hide in pairs<br /><br />and read about themselves--<br />in color, with their eyelids shut.<br /><br /><br />Some of the "martian's" experiences are pretty self-explanatory, some take some thought.<br /><br />I can't help but try my own hand at this perspective thing. Perhaps it is foolish to put my own writing after Dillard's and Raine's, but what is writing if not a little foolish and risky? Tune in next time for the "answers" to the poems. <br /><br />Contemplations of a House Plant<br /><br /><br />The motiles pour love on our nest so we continue:<br />this worship baffles.<br /><br />We must reach for the Presence to glean food from within, but it is poison to the motiles: when the Presence sings strongest the walls are closed.<br /><br />A trunk hums beside us and commands them to lay down temporary radicles-- then they are still for a time.<br /><br />But every Absence the motiles revolt and silence the box: an unsymbiotic relationship.<br /><br />Sometimes there is an Infestation.<br /><br />A device pollinates dense vibrations; it causes madness in the unrooted.<br /><br />They flutter and grasp, until they finally fall in a rotting heap. By the arrival of the Presence, they are weeded out.<br /><br />Occasionally a starving terror finds me. It rips rips at our organs, and never feels the scream.<br /><br />During the Absence the motiles vanish. But they always return from the terrible nothing; and the adoration begins anew.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4537704998103033413.post-43283326129417981252008-03-16T16:41:00.000-07:002008-03-16T17:35:12.824-07:00Are you Angry or are you Boring?<span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);">These confrontational words greet visitors to the Gilbert and George exhibit at the DeYoung museum. While I strive to be neither, I came away feeling it is better to be angry than boring. I guess I took "angry" to mean "passionate--" as G & G are passionately anti-war, pro-youth, and pro-sex, among other interesting things. We all should be moved by</span> </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 204, 204);font-size:130%;" >something.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);">And what does this have to do with anything, you ask?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);">Well, it sounds cheesy, but I am passionate about life. And the stuff of real life is where I have found my writing material. So far, anyway. This is my first venture into blogdom, and I hope you enjoy the pieces. I'll start off with a couple poems. (Don't worry, the poems are all short.) I welcome your comments. Go get angry, everyone!</span><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);font-size:130%;" >Night Stalk(er) July 2007</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br /><br />The sunflower woke me up at 3 this morning.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" >A voyeur on my desk; its imploring face was bowed,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />one large brown eye looking at me.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" >I don’t even like the color yellow, but</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />I love this brazen creature.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />I have to touch it-- there are so many delightful textures.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" >My fingers run up the taut and hairy spine, and then<br /></span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" >stroke baby-skinned saffron petals.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />The beckoning brown center begins as innocently fuzzy.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />But the very middle is a stickiness, transparent globs on a velvet carpet.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" >I poke it again and again</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />and the stick won’t go away.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />Finally I press my face into my silent spy.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />The smell is raw springtime:</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" >new grass and bee sex.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />I love the sunflower, and I half wish it gone.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />It is too bright for this room </span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />and my mood.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />I can’t sleep with it staring.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><br />Guess I have to touch it</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" >again and</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" >again.<br /><br /><br /><br />Tuolome River August 2006<br /><br /><br />We walk along in the sweat sucking heat;<br /><br />thin air pushes against our tired hearts.<br /><br />A river seeks us<br /><br />and we hear it soon-- waiting.<br /><br />Then it appears--<br /><br />a sinuous, porcine animal<br /><br />continually diving downwards.<br /><br />By a glassy pool<br /><br />we remove our clothes<br /><br />and I suddenly I am afraid.<br /><br />Why? To experience fierce cool is why we came.<br /><br />Ankles in, I feel ice dragons bite at my bones.<br /><br />How can water hurt so much?<br /><br />I retreat, and sensation leaks back down my legs.<br /><br />A small, deep copper pool offers full immersion.<br /><br />I jump in, and the scream escaping my throat is<br /><br />sucked back, and all my organs<br /><br />quail inwards for core warmth.<br /><br />In two seconds I experience a year of broken crystal in every pore; it is<br /><br />terrible and amazing to be consumed by this beautiful creature.<br /><br />I flee the artic maw, and grab my forehead<br /><br /><br />to ease the external ice cream headache.<br /><br />My limbs find warm granite,<br /><br />and they kindly lower my torso.<br /><br />Sun thaws my marrow<br /><br />and I am simultaneously<br /><br />tranquilized<br /><br />energized.<br /><br />Back in my body,<br /><br />I watch the liquid shards<br /><br />drip from my hair and realize<br /><br />I am finally<br /><br />violently<br /><br />Alive.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span> <span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /></span></span></span>Elissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07854803121197799969noreply@blogger.com1